The Last, Lost Hope
by Delancey654
Summary: When all hope is lost, what would you do to survive? Neville Longbottom becomes a Death Eater. Hermione Granger accepts Draco Malfoy's protection and he accepts her help. Theo Nott joins the remnants of the Order of the Phoenix. Ginny Weasley fills Bellatrix's shoes, while her brother Percy toils as a bureaucrat. And all of them have a role to play in overthrowing Voldemort.
1. Draco and the Diadem

**This is a transformative work, written for fun rather than for profit. All recognizable characters and legal rights belong to JKR and her assignees.**

 ** _May 1, 1998_**

Draco Malfoy was holding court in the Slytherin common room, surrounded by his fellow seventh years and a few favored students from other years. The only positive thing he could say about the Dark Mark branded on his arm was that it had cemented his social standing in the snake pit. Crabbe and Goyle always had been loyal and eager to do his bidding, but now Theo Nott and even aloof Blaise Zabini tried to curry favor with him. It went without saying, as Pansy ran her hand up his thigh, that the witches fawned over him more than ever.

Of course, the downsides included a disfiguring snake and skull tattoo branded into his flesh and perpetual service to a vicious madman who relied on torture as a tool to motivate his loyal followers. Or not so loyal, in Draco's case. His family's punishment after Potter escaped from Malfoy Manor with Granger, Weasley, and the other prisoners had been terrible. Inflicting the Cruciactus Curse on his branded followers was one thing, but Draco would never forgive Voldemort for what he had ordered to be done to his mother, having Narcissa stripped and flogged in front of an audience of jeering Death Eaters like a Muggle criminal.

After less than two years as a Death Eater, it was fair to say that Draco was disillusioned. Unfortunately, he saw no way out. Rumor had it that Potter was the only one able to defeat the Dark Lord, and Draco had no confidence that the gormless Gryffindor could find his arse with his hands unless Mudblood Granger was assisting. That meant he was playing a waiting game, careful to keep his platinum head down and his thoughts buried until he saw a chance to grab his mother and flee the country. He suspected that Narcissa, though still recovering, was plotting as well. His father was worthless - too many Crucios and too many months in Azkaban had left Lucius a twitching shell of a wizard.

None of this discontent showed on Draco's face, and the surface of his mind - should Snape or either of the Professors Carrow try to read his thoughts - was superficially preoccupied with upcoming NEWT exams and irritation at Pansy's emotional demands. When his Dark Mark burned, Draco dislodged her from his side, none too gently.

"Duty calls," he announced to the common room, hiding his discomfort behind a smirk.

"Just you?" Nott asked in disappointment. He had been Marked over the Easter holidays and was eager to see action.

"Just me," Draco confirmed. "You'll know if the Dark Lord is calling you," he added condescendingly. Nott did not yet appreciate how lucky he was, to be stuck on the sidelines and well away from the Dark Lord's increasingly unstable rages.

Draco sauntered out of the common room in a manner befitting the acknowledged Prince of Slytherin, but broke into a dead run down the corridor as soon as the door shut behind him. Appearances were important, but he was not going to be tortured for tardiness if he could help it. It was a good thing for him that Dumbledore's office and quarters had refused to open for Snape, since it meant the current headmaster's quarters and Floo to the outside world were in the dungeons rather than four levels up.

His godfather was never one for small talk, and merely nodded his permission when Draco asked to Floo to Malfoy Manor.

"Take care, Draco," Professor Snape warned unnecessarily. "The Dark Lord's patience is short these days, and the _Prophet_ reports that Potter evaded capture after attempting to rob Gringott's this afternoon."

"Thank you, Severus," Draco nodded. He threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace. "Malfoy Manor," he called, stepping into the green flames.

Draco did not bother to brush off his robes as he exited into the drawing room at Malfoy Manor. The house-elves kept the fireplaces clean of any soot. He crossed to the Dark Lord, lounging in a throne-like chair that had once been Lucius's favorite, and dropped to his knees.

"How may I serve you, Lord?" Draco asked, sounding deeply respectful.

"There is an object of mine at Hogwarts that I wish for you to retrieve, young Malfoy," Voldemort hissed.

"I should be pleased to do so," Draco murmured, eyes to the floor so nothing would betray his feelings at being commanded, like a dog, to fetch and carry. "What is the object, my Lord?"

He tried to ignore the stains under his knees. They were from the day Potter and his friends had been caught by Snatchers and dragged into the Manor, though Draco could not tell whether the dried blood was from his aunt carving up Granger's arm or from his mother's punishment. He buried that disquieting thought deep.

"A goblin-wrought diadem with an oval sapphire," Voldemort replied. "The inscription it bears reads, 'Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.' You will find it in the Room of Hidden Things, which I know you are familiar with."

"Yes, Lord," Draco acknowledged. He had only spent the majority of his sixth year camped out in that Merlin-damned room, trying to fix the Vanishing Cabinet.

He risked one more question. "Shall I bring the diadem to you tonight?"

"I shall come to you, Draco. And if I am unavoidably detained, stay at Hogwarts and guard the diadem with your life. Its worth is far higher."

"Of course, my Lord," Draco agreed. With a sidelong glance around the drawing room, he realized that the diadem must be important indeed. While it was routine for Voldemort to threaten his followers' lives as a penalty for failure, he preferred to do so in front of an audience. Tonight, the two of them were alone in the drawing room.

"I shall go now, with your permission." He would love to stay and see his mother, to make sure she was as well as possible, but Draco was not so foolish as to make that request.

"Go, and do not fail me, boy," Voldemort dismissed him.

Back at Hogwarts, Draco stopped by the common room and ordered Greg and Vince to come with him to the Room of Requirement. They were just intelligent enough to help him search, once he explained what a diadem _was_ , but too loyal and too stupid to try and share credit before the Dark Lord.

Even with their assistance, it was a daunting task to sift through a cathedral-sized room filled with all of the detritus Hogwarts students had hidden or lost over the centuries. Of course, a simple _Accio_ did not work, and Draco estimated it had been going on two hours when he finally spotted the diadem, perched cheekily atop a horsehair wig on the bust of some ugly old warlock. He wondered what was going on in the rest of the castle, if Voldemort had yet arrived.

Draco climbed atop a rickety old chair to retrieve the diadem, and nearly dropped it once it was in his hands. He could actually feel the evil emanating from the diadem, like dipping into a cold and murky pond where _anything_ might be lurking under the surface.

" _Accio_ diadem!" called a girl's annoyingly familiar voice from the far end of the room.

Draco smirked to himself. That trick would not work and, in any event, the Mudblood was too late.

"Let's split up," Potter suggested to Granger and the Weasel King. "Look for a stone bust of an old man wearing a wig and a tiara. It's standing on a cupboard and it's definitely somewhere near here . . . . "

Looking at the diadem in his hand, Draco decided this was definitely an occasion where the guile of a serpent was preferable to the courage of a lion.

" _Gemimo_ ," he whispered, pointing his borrowed wand at the diadem. He replaced the copy on the warlock's pockmarked stone head and carefully tucked the real diadem inside his robes, suppressing a shudder at the cold feel of the metal even through his Oxford shirt. Then he beckoned for Vince and Greg to join him, motioning for silence. Draco wanted his wand back from Potter.

He waited until Scarhead was reaching for the fake diadem before stepping from the shadows. "Hold it, Potter. That's my wand you're holding."

"Winners, keepers, Malfoy," the dark-haired boy taunted, rather stupidly for someone with three wands trained on him. "Who's lent you theirs?"

"My mother," Draco said shortly, not pleased at that fact. His mother had left herself defenseless among the Death Eaters at the Manor so that he could have a wand.

"So how did you three get in here?" Potter asked with mock-casualness, raising his voice.

"I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year," Draco answered in a brittle voice, annoyed by Potter's unsubtle attempt to get help from his filthy and ginger sidekicks. "Now give me my wand."

Then it all went to hell, with Weaselbee and the Mudblood converging on them and Crabbe conjuring Fiendfyre, of all the bloody spells in the world. Of course the great lug was incapable of controlling it, which is why Draco found himself hauling Goyle to a precarious perch atop some charred desks, while trying to maintain a Bubblehead Charm over the both of them. Through the choking smoke, Draco saw Potter swooping towards the exit on a dilapidated broomstick, with the Weasel and the Mudblood flying a second broom behind them. In desperation, Draco waved his hand for help.

His hand slipped through Potter's sweaty grip. Draco instead shoved Goyle onto the broom behind Potter, the larger boy barely conscious enough to hang on.

"If we die for them, I'll kill you, Harry!" shouted the Weasel. It made no sense - everyone knew ghosts were harmless - but the ginger was hovering his broom in front of Draco and the Mudblood was holding out her hand. He took it briefly, unsurprised that it was dry and warm to the touch. Of course she was intelligent enough to cast a charm so he would not slip. Draco swung onto broom behind her, trying not to think that he might owe Granger a life debt if he survived this. Even worse was the stray, blood-traitorous thought that she tucked perfectly under his chin.

The Weasel flew them to the exit competently enough, and then Draco was scrambling off the broomstick, coughing and retching from smoke inhalation and hoping he could forget how it felt to hold a Mudblood in his arms. And then he realized that Vince had not made it out.

"C-Crabbe," he choked out, trying not to cry for the large boy who had been his shadow since they both could toddle. "C-Crabbe."

"He's dead," Weasley said harshly. Granger gave Draco one fleeting glance of sympathy, but wisely said nothing.

The Headless Hunt thundered past them in the hallway, and Draco was suddenly aware of screams and cursing in the distance, teamed with the popping and shrieking of spell fire. He knew those sounds from the night Dumbledore had died - these were the sounds of a pitched battle. The Dark Lord had arrived at Hogwarts.

"Harry, what's that on your arm?" the Mudblood demanded sharply.

"What? Oh, yeah," Potter said vaguely. He pulled the copy of the diadem of his wrist. It was blackened with soot and broke apart as Draco watched with apathetic eyes.

The Mudblood was whispering something, gesticulating to her thicker friends for emphasis. "If we can just get the snake - "

Somehow, Draco was sure she was not referring to him. Slumped against the stone was of the corridor, he touched the real diadem inside his robes, feeling both relieved and repulsed that it was still intact. His Master would not be displeased.

 **A/N: A bit of dialogue in the RoR is borrowed directly from DH.**


	2. Ginny's Premonition

**_May 1, 1998 - continued_**

"Where's Ginny?" Harry said, a flattering note of panic in his voice as he looked up and down the seventh-floor corridor. "She was supposed to be here, waiting to go back into the Room of Requirement."

"Blimey, d'ya reckon it'll still work after the fire?" asked Ron.

"No, I think it's broken," Ginny said cheerfully, stepping out from behind the tapestry-covered niche where she had hidden herself. "I suppose that means I'll have to go and fight."

She saw Malfoy and Goyle slinking away, huddled against each other, but said nothing. They seemed harmless enough just now.

"You aren't fighting, Gin," Ron blustered. "You're not of age, and besides, Mum said so."

Ginny tossed him a scornful glare. "I've been fighting all year, you git. While you were snug at Shell Cottage making calf eyes at Phlegm, I was Neville's lieutenant in Dumbledore's Army. Trust me, after the Carrows, Mum isn't that intimidating."

Ron turned puce and opened and closed his mouth, no sound coming out. Ginny grinned at the effect.

"C'mon, Ron," Hermione said, with an understanding glance towards Ginny. "Give them a few minutes." She cocked her head, bushy brown hair restrained a braid, towards the distant sounds of battle. "We've got a little bit of time."

Clueless prat that he was, Ron allowed her to drag him off, muttering all the while about his "baby sister."

Ginny grinned at his departure and drew Harry back into her little hiding place. There was a tiny stone bench and, beyond that, barely room for them to stand chest to chest. Ginny rather liked the proximity.

"I missed you," she murmured to Harry. She wrapped her arms around his waist.

"I missed you, too," he said, awkwardly putting his arms around her shoulders. "So much, Gin."

"Then prove it and kiss me," she said, tossing her red hair over her shoulder in a gesture most boys found hard to resist.

Harry proved to be no different, tightening his arms around her shoulders and kissing her with the pent-up enthusiasm created by months of separation. Ginny opened her mouth and moaned her encouragement. She ran her hands beneath his ratty hooded sweatshirt, feeling the lean muscles of his abdomen flex under her palms.

"Nngh," Harry said unintelligibly against her lips, as she moved one hand lower, popping the button of his denims and lowering the zip in order to maneuver her hand inside his shorts.

Briefly, they broke off their kiss, both gasping for breath.

"I want you to touch my breasts," Ginny requested, using simple, one-syllable words. Poor Harry seemed very distracted by her hand, busily stroking his length. That made her smirk in self-satisfaction, as did the way he eagerly pushed up her Weird Sisters t-shirt and fumbled with her bra to grant her request.

Then she was moaning again, because Harry remembered _exactly_ how she liked to be touched. He squeezed her breasts with the perfect amount of pressure while using the pads of his thumbs to brush her nipples with feather-light touches.

"Just like that," she breathed in his ear, before kissing him again. Ginny rubbed her thighs together in anticipation as the kiss deepened. Harry read her signals correctly and moved his right hand between her legs, under the edge of her dampened knickers. First one finger, then two, then a third as Ginny cried out in approval, tightening her grip on his cock.

"I'm getting close," Harry warned, as she began to clench around him. From their fooling around at the end of her fifth year, Ginny recognized her cue to take him into her mouth. Today, though, she had a different ending in mind.

"Sit down," she requested huskily. Harry did, reluctantly removing his now glistening fingers from her tight warmth. Ginny pushed his boxer shorts down and took a moment to admire his cock, fully erect and sticking straight up in an invitation she was thrilled to accept.

Without any ceremony, she pulled her knickers down, kicking them away from her ankles, and shoved her skirt up over her hips.

"Ginny, what are you doing?" Harry asked, hands on her hips, stilling her descent. His green eyes had shifted from lustful to concerned in a heartbeat.

"I want to shag you," she said simply.

"Gin, er, I've never . . . " Harry began.

"Me either," Ginny interrupted swiftly. "I waited for you, all year. And now I want this." She glanced down at his erection, which was twitching to get closer to her entrance. "I think you want it, too," she added with a grin. "Part of you _really_ wants this."

"You deserve better for your first time," Harry said, ever-conscientious.

"I want _you_ ," Ginny said with a eye roll. "If I can have you, I don't care about rose petals on satin sheets."

Harry still looked unconvinced, though he was wavering. "This is not a story I want to tell our kids and grandkids, that we lost our virginity to each other behind a tapestry as a battle was gearing up to start."

Ginny laughed out loud. "If any of the nosy little buggers ever dares to ask that, I'll hit them with a Bat-Bogey Hex so you won't have to answer."

She turned serious, her brown eyes staring directly into his green ones. "I want to give you something to fight for. Something good to remember, if it ever seems like all hope is lost."

With that, Harry nodded once in understanding and loosened his grip on hips. Ginny slid her body down to join with his, inhaling sharply. There was no pain, just an incredible feeling of fullness and sense of completeness.

"You alright?" Harry asked.

"Never been better," Ginny reassured him.

She began rocking against him, experimentally, but stopped when Harry let out a deep groan. "Are you okay, Harry?"

"Never been better," he echoed her words from a moment before with a laugh. "Just - I'm not going to last long. Especially - especially if you keep doing that!" he gasped, as Ginny shimmied on his lap.

"A quickie sounds good to me," she said agreeably. Ginny had no desire to kill the mood, but she knew Harry - even if he had already found and destroyed whatever it was in the Room of Requirement that was worth almost being incinerated for - had much more important things to do than her.

A few more gyrations of her hips, combined with Harry thrusting up into her, had him burying his head into her neck. "Oh, yeah, Ginny!" he cried out. She felt a gush of warm stickiness as he finished.

After a few moments against her neck, Harry lifted his head and gave her a heart-breaking smile. "Merlin, Gin - that was amazing!" Then a faintly guilty look shadowed his emerald eyes. "You didn't, uh, come, did you?"

"I did before," she replied. "You'll just have to owe me one next time," Ginny added mischievously.

"I think I'm getting the better end of the deal," Harry said with a smile, planting a lingering kiss on her lips.

"Oi, Harry!" Ron called from the other side of the tapestry. "Time to go, mate!"

"Hermione was right - he has the emotional range of a teaspoon," Ginny muttered. "I have no idea what she sees in him."

"Er," Harry said, clearly uncomfortable. "D'ya want me to stay a little bit longer?"

She gave him a bright smile, one that did not quite reach her eyes. "As much as I'd love you to stay, you have a Dark Lord to defeat. Stay safe, Harry."

Harry nodded and kissed her once more, quick and hard. "I'll try to. I love you, Ginny," he said.

For a moment, she was shocked into speechlessness by his declaration. The Chosen One, the Boy Who Lived, the boy she had had a crush on since she was nine - he loved _her_?

"I love you, too," she said, but Harry was already gone. Ginny hoped he heard her reply, even if it was muffled by the thick tapestry.

She took a few minutes to clean up between her legs with an efficient series of _Tergeos_ and _Scourgifies_ , cursing all the while. "Bloody mess," she grumbled, meaning it in both senses of the phrase. With all of the time she spent riding broomsticks, she really had not thought she had a cherry left to pop, but she had been wrong.

She pulled up her knickers and pulled down her skirt. With a frown of concentration, she Transfigured the khaki material into trousers for better mobility. Ginny touched the tip of her wand to her lower belly, preparatory to casting a contraceptive charm.

Then she paused, with a slightly vacant look on her face. If anyone had been watching, they would thought Ginny was trying to listen to a program - perhaps _Potterwatch_ \- on a poorly-tuned wireless. Her words to Harry echoed in her mind, but in his voice rather than her own. _I want to give you something to fight for. Something good to remember, if it ever seems like all hope is lost_.

The Weasleys were prosaic British wizarding stock, but the Prewetts, on her mother's side, hailed from Conwy in northern Wales and had more than a touch of second sight. A shiver ran down Ginny's spine, like an invisible finger, at her premonition and what it might mean. She tucked her wand up her sleeve without casting the charm and peeked out from behind the tapestry to make sure the corridor was clear. She would take a morning-after potion tomorrow, assuming there was a morning after.


	3. Percy the Prat

**A/N: As you might expect in a story where Voldemort wins, there are character deaths - some canon and some not.**

 ** _May 1, 1998, continued_**

Percy was working late at the Ministry, as was usual for a junior assistant to the Minister of Magic, when he noticed an unusual pattern in the comings and goings from Pius Thicknesse's office. The Minister had spent the afternoon and evening in a series of short meetings with every known Death Eater in the Ministry, ranging from lowly flunkies like Macnair, who functioned as the equivalent of a Muggle dog catcher, to departmental heads like Rookwood and Runcorn.

On a loo break, Percy took a risk and sent a message to Aberforth Dumbledore, asking him what was going on. Aberforth's Patronus had trotted into the men's room mere minutes later. "We're making a stand at Hogwarts," the silvery goat spoke bluntly. "The Order's mobilizing now. If yer a Weasley worth the name, you'll be wanting to join us."

Percy _wanted_ to join them. Not just because his entire family would be fighting in Hogwarts Castle, but because he had seen enough of the inner workings of the Ministry since Rufus Scrimgeour's death to realize his family was fighting for what was right. Voldemort was back, with a vengeance, and the Ministry's policies veered closer to totalitarianism every day.

Wanting to do the right thing was much harder than actually doing it, of course. Percy wavered for nearly a quarter-hour. By going to Hogwarts, he would be risking not only his livelihood, but quite possibly his life. He was not certain his parents and siblings would forgive him even if he showed up. And he was not inherently brave: the only reason the Sorting Hat had put him in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw for intelligence or Slytherin for ambition was because he had begged, too scared to be the first Weasley in centuries who was anything other than a lion.

A quick errand down the bowels of the Ministry, where the Muggleborn Registration Commission held its sham hearings and maintained several holding cells, stiffened Percy's resolve. There was a child crying in one of the cells, a little girl still wearing a pink party dress and pointy cardboard hat with some Muggle cartoon princess to celebrate her eleventh birthday. Apparently she had received her Hogwarts acceptance letter, followed by Aurors with an arrest warrant for "stealing" magic. The little girl's straight blonde hair reminded Percy of Penelope Clearwater. His first girlfriend and Head Girl to his Head Boy at Hogwarts was on the run from the MRC, since she - like the child in the holding cell - was a Muggleborn.

Percy squared his shoulders. Without bothering to go back up to the Minister's office and bid his Imperiused puppet of a boss goodnight, he took the lift to the Atrium and Floo'd through to the Hog's Head. The pub was empty, except for Aberforth and an elderly woman wearing a hat topped with a vulture.

"Madam Longbottom," Percy inclined his head respectfully to the formidable old witch.

"Yer almost late," Aberforth said grumpily. "There's been a whole herd of students tromping through my pub, evacuating. Death Eaters' kids, too. Should have kept that lot locked up as bargaining chips, if you ask me."

"Can we still get into Hogwarts?" Percy asked anxiously. "My whole family is there, fighting, unless Ginny came through?"

Augusta Longbottom gave him a scornful look as Aberforth shook his head. "Naturally, Ginevra stayed to fight. As did my grandson Neville," she added proudly.

"We should like to go and join them," she added, with a pointed look at the two wizards.

"Be my guest," Aberforth said sourly, gesturing to the portrait behind the bar. "Ariana's tunnel is open."

He dropped his rag on the bar at Augusta's glare. "I may as well come with you," Aberforth sighed. "I can't expect any paying customers tonight."

The three of them walked in silence along the dirt-floored passageway leading to Hogwarts. They emerged in what Percy recognized as a corridor on the seventh floor, midway between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw towers, where he and Penelope used to meet. A handful of students - including his sister, his brother Fred, Lee Jordan, and a blonde Hufflepuff - were guarding the entrance, wands out.

"Huh," said Aberforth, scratching his head in a puzzled manner. "Ariana usually takes us to the Room of Requirement. I wonder what happened."

"The Room's burnt to a cinder," Ginny offered.

"Ginevra Molly Weasley! What are you doing here?" Percy scolded.

She shrugged. "I was going to wait in the Room, but, like I said, it's burnt. So I'll just have to fight." Ginny seemed unduly pleased at the prospect, almost smug.

"It's a nice night for it," Fred grinned. The grin disappeared as he turned to Percy. "What are you doing here?" he asked coldly.

Percy swallowed hard and adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses. "I came to fight, as well. Am I too late?"

His question encompassed much more than the battle that was gearing up around them. Fred eyed him stonily as Ginny glared, while the non-Weasleys averted their eyes from the family drama.

"I was a fool!" Percy burst out. "I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a - "

"Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron?" Fred suggested.

"Yes, I was," Percy admitted, shame-faced.

Fred held out his hand. "Well, you can't say any fairer than that."

Percy ignored his younger brother's hand, hugging him hard instead.

Ginny joined in, eyes suspiciously bright, but a mischievous smirk on her lips. "Well, we do look to our prefects to take the lead at times such as these," she said, imitating Percy at his worst.

He smiled at his baby sister. "Indeed we do, Ginevra."

"With the family reunion out of the way, let's go and fight," Fred urged.

Aberforth led Lee, the Hufflepuff girl, and Madam Longbottom towards the north battlements, while the three Weasley siblings headed to the Astronomy Tower. When they reached it, they saw that the door to the unprotected tower had been blasted off its hinges, allowing Voldemort's forces to penetrate Hogwarts. Even as they arrived, five masked and hooded Death Eaters were racing down the stairs.

"The buggers always did like this tower," Fred muttered, before hitting the man in the lead with a Stunner.

Percy's Tripping Jinx brought another Death Eater tumbling down the steps, but he quickly scrambled to his feet and sent a jet of deadly green in their direction.

"They aren't playing!" Fred warned unnecessarily.

Ginny hit the Death Eater who had tried to kill her brother with a hex that sent him crashing into the stone wall of the castle. He slumped to the ground and did not move. Percy hit the doorway with a _Reducto_ , partially blocking the entry point from the tower, and then they were running down the corridor, dueling the remaining Death Eaters, three on three.

With adrenalin racing, Percy felt more alive than he had in years, despite an underlying cold thread of fear that he and all his family were at risk. He found himself laughing as he dueled his erstwhile boss.

"Hey, Minister! Did I mention I'm resigning?" Percy yelled, hitting Thicknesse with a nasty jinx that would temporarily Transfigure him into a sea urchin.

As the Minister of Magic collapsed, already sprouting tentacles, Percy turned his attention to the Death Eater facing Fred and hit him with a Stunner, just as Ginny did the same. A third bolt of red came from further down the hallway, where his brother Ron, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger were running towards them. It hit the third Death Eater, whom Ginny had already incapacitated with a _Diffindo_ to his wand arm.

"You're joking, Perce!" shouted Fred with a grin, taking advantage of their momentary respite to sag against the stone wall and swipe sweat off his forehead. "I don't think I've heard you joke since you were - "

The wall behind Fred exploded. The force of the blast knocked Percy off his feet. By some miracle, and with the help of a strong Sticking Charm, his glasses were merely knocked askew. Even after he righted them, he could barely see through the dust and smoke in the corridor, and hastily cast a Bubblehead Charm.

"Fred? Gin? Ron?" he called, desperately hoping for a response. "Harry? Hermione? _Anyone_?"

A choking cough was his only answer. Percy followed the sound to pull Ginny out of the rubble and to her feet. Thankfully, she was unhurt but for a few minor cuts and abrasions.

"Fred? Fred!" came Ron's voice from across the corridor, panicky and high-pitched. "No! Fred! No!"

Percy stumbled through the debris to reach his two younger brothers, Ginny at his heels. He recited healing charms in his head and reminded himself that he was a gifted wizard, with twelve OWLs and perfect NEWT scores, and he could fix almost any conceivable injury.

But when he saw the impossible angle of Fred's neck, the glassy look in his eyes, and the ghost of a smile on his freckled face, Percy knew there was nothing he could do.

Fred was dead.


	4. Hermione's Battle

**_May 1, 1998 - continued_**

 _War is hell_ , Hermione thought to herself, surveying Percy, Ginny and Ron crumpled in grief over their dead brother, all oblivious to curses flying through the air and acromantulas climbing in through the hole blasted in the side of the castle.

"Let's move - NOW!" Harry shouted, pushing her from behind to reinforce his command. Together with Percy, he hefted Fred's body under the armpits and stowed it in a niche formerly occupied by a suit of armor. With a sick sense of horror, Hermione recalled the acromantulas were carnivorous, and she cast every repelling spell she knew to keep what remained of Fred from being eaten by the giant spiders.

"Rookwood!" Percy screamed, in a tone of pure hate that Hermione had never though to hear from the most priggish Weasley. "You killed my brother, you bastard!"

Ginny's bowed head shot up at that, and she and Percy shot off in pursuit of the tall Death Eater. Hermione managed to clamp a hand on Ron's gangly arm before he could follow.

"Let me go!" he howled. "I want to go kill Death Eaters!"

His freckled face was twisted in an expression of rage and grief that she never wished to see again. Ron shoved her, hard, but Hermione grimly clung to his arm.

"Listen to me, Ron!" she shrieked. "We're the only ones who can end it! Please, Ron - listen to me! We've got to kill the snake!" she pleaded with him, trying to make him see sense.

Slowly, sense and rationality returned to his bright blue eyes, though he still looked murderous. "I don't want to kill the fucking snake, Hermione," he growled. "I want to kill Death Eaters."

She understood how he felt - Fred had not been her brother, but she still felt a burning desire to avenge his death. "We'll have to fight our way through the castle to get to the snake. Then we can _end_ it," she promised with determination. "We can end _them_."

Without releasing her hold on Ron's arm, Hermione turned to Harry. "Where are they?" she demanded. "Voldemort and the snake. Use your connection to find them," she urged.

Harry closed his emerald eyes, forehead crinkled in concentration. After what seemed like an hour, but was probably less than a minute, he opened his eyes, looking disoriented. "He's in the Shrieking Shack, with the snake. It's got some sort of magical cage around it."

"Voldemort's sitting on his bony arse in the Shrieking Shack? He's not even _fighting_?" Hermione asked in outrage. "Bloody coward."

"He knows I'll go to him," Harry said wryly.

"Like hell you will!" Ron shouted.

Hermione could not have agreed more. After a brief squabble, interrupted by two Death Eaters who Hermione sent sliding headfirst into a stone wall, it was agreed that all three of them would go.

 _War is hell_ , the mantra repeated in her head as she, Harry and Ron, huddled under the Invisibility Cloak, picked their way through a corridor filled with students and teachers dueling Death Eaters. Pithy, but no less true than when General Sherman had so informed the graduating class of Muggle military academy a century before she was born. Hermione felt a twinge of anger when she realized that those cadets, young as they were, still had been older than the Hogwarts students forced to fight Dark wizards.

She also felt more than a twinge of pride at how well the D.A. members were holding their own. She smiled in satisfaction as she saw Parvati put Dolohov in a full Body Bind. Beneath the Invisibility cloak, Hermione followed up with a cutting hex to sever his Achilles' tendon. She still owed the Russian wizard for those incapacitating purple flames in the Department of Mysteries and wanted to make sure he stayed down for the duration of the battle.

On the staircase landing, she caught sight of Malfoy trying to persuade a Death Eater not to curse him. "I'm Draco Malfoy! I'm on your side!"

Hermione smirked to herself. His distinctive white-blond hair shone like a beacon even through the smoke and dust - there was no doubt he was a Malfoy. The second point was debatable, however. Godric only knew which side the sneaky Slytherin really was on. Probably the winning one, if he had anything to say about it.

Harry, ever the hero, Stunned the Death Eater threatening Malfoy. Ron, on the other hand, punched Malfoy in the mouth from under the Invisibility Cloak. "And that's the second time we've saved your life tonight, you two-faced ferret!"

Hermione, knowing that Ron was still simmering with anger over Fred's death and needed an outlet, refrained from reprimanding him about the sucker punch. Besides, she still remembered from her third year how satisfying it was to hit Malfoy's pointy face.

Leaving a confused Malfoy behind, unharmed but for a split lip, they entered the chaos and carnage of the Great Hall. There were more injured and unmoving students here, many of whom Hermione did not recognize. They were younger or had only joined the D.A. in the last year, when she was on the run with Harry, and that inexperience was killing them, literally. Still, with a sprinkling of Aurors like Kingsley Shacklebolt and several professors - including Flitwick, dueling two Death Eaters at once with no sign of distress - the fight in the Great Hall was still fairly even.

Hermione's eyes narrowed at Fenrir Greyback atop Lavender Brown, his blood-stained teeth showing in a feral grin at her feeble struggles. The moon was less than half-full, but that had not stopped the werewolf from giving in to his lupine urges. With her near-photographic memory, another Sherman quote flashed through Hermione's brain as she raised her wand. _Those who brought war into our country_ \- into our school, she mentally amended - _deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out_.

" _Reducto_!" The power of her blasting spell sent Greyback toppling off Lavender's body and through the glass of one of the few remaining intact windows.

Hermione was a powerful enough witch that she did not need to cast Unforgivables in order to be lethal. Indeed, she had not used any illegal or even Dark curses so far this night. If Voldemort won, she would be in Azkaban - or worse - regardless of what magic she used, but any trust she used to have for authority had been destroyed so far as the Ministry was concerned. Even if Harry won, she could easily see some overzealous bureaucrat making an example of her, as a Muggleborn, and shipping her off to Azkaban for nothing more than defending herself and her friends.

Concealed under the cloak, she fought alongside Harry and Ron as they made their way to and through the Great Hall to the grounds outside, dodging Death Eaters, friendly fire, wrestling giants, and more acromantulas. At this point, Hermione truly empathized with Ron's terror of spiders.

The Dementors were a problem. Perhaps it was seeing Fred die, perhaps it was due to the carnage they had seen, fighting their way down from the topmost floor of the castle, perhaps it was the lingering exposure to Horcruxes, but Harry's stag Patronus flickered and went out, followed by Ron's terrier, and finally her otter twisted and swam into nothingness. And then Hermione realized Voldemort was going to win, she and her friends were going to die soon _if they were lucky_ , and the D.A. and Order would be annihilated. She was going to be raped by Snatchers and subjected to the Cruciactus Curse until her mind was destroyed and nothing remained behind but a gibbering wreck of a body. The only consolation she had was that her parents were safe and blissfully ignorant somewhere in Australia, but that thought was too bittersweet to drive back the darkness and despair clouding her thoughts as the pack of Dementors drew nearer.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" chorused three familiar and welcome voices. A silvery hare hopped in front of Hermione and the boys, followed by a trotting boar that managed to look dignified and a glowing fox that prowled after the Dementors as though they were plump chickens rather than soul-sucking demons.

Hermione drew a deep breath and summoned every bit of hope she could grasp to cast her own Patronus. It worked - her playful otter gamboled up to the other animals to hold the Dementors at bay. Harry's stag, when he finally was able to make it materialize, was bright as always and drove the Dementors off into the night.

" - can't thank you enough. You just saved our lives," Hermione dimly heard Ron speaking to Luna, Ernie, and Seamus, his voice shaky. He had been unable to make his terrier appear again.

Any further thanks were cut short by a giant, bellowing and swinging his club indiscriminately at everyone and everything in range. The six teens scattered, with Hermione chasing Ron and Harry as they ran towards the Whomping Willow and Luna, Seamus, and Ernie sticking together as they darted back into the fray.

The tunnel leading from the Whomping Willow to the Shrieking Shack, cramped and dank as it was, still offered a welcome respite from the battle raging inside and around Hogwarts Castle. When they reached the shack, she crouched behind Harry, straining to hear Voldemort's conversation with Snape, with Ron a warm presence at her back.

"Why doesn't it work for me, Severus?" Voldemort asked about the Elder Wand. Hermione could tell, from the ominous undertone in the cold voice, that this was not a mere rhetorical question.

Snape seemed to sense the danger he was in, as well, from his repeated offers to leave the Shrieking Shack and fetch Harry as his master complained about the Elder Wand's disappointing performance. "My Lord - let me go to the boy," he requested, for the fourth time.

"No, Severus," Voldemort refused him again. "The Elder Wand cannot serve me properly, because I am not its true master. The Elder Wand belongs to the wizard who killed its last owner. You killed Albus Dumbledore. While you live, Severus, the Elder Wand cannot truly be mine."

From her hiding place in the tunnel, under the floorboards, Hermione silently snorted at this shining example of flawed wizarding logic. _Of course_ the Elder Wand could pass to a new owner through theft or guile, or means other than death, as it had many times throughout history. Even Voldemort should know that - after all, Dumbledore had become the master of the wand by defeating Grindelwald in a duel, not killing him.

Her mind raced as Snape protested and Voldemort hissed something in Parseltongue that made Harry stiffen. If Snape was not the true master of the Elder Wand, but Voldemort was not either, then it had to be -

"Draco Malfoy," Hermione whispered in realization, her soft voice drowned out by Snape's dying screams.

"I regret it," Voldemort said coldly from above them, before he swept from the room, Nagini slithering behind.

Hermione doubted that was any consolation to her former Potions professor as he lay bleeding out on the dusty floor. Her train of thought turned back to the wand that had caused yet another death. Harry had Disarmed Malfoy as they fled Malfoy Manor, and had been using the other boy's wand ever since, which meant -

"Harry," she breathed, needing to tell him her theory about his mastery of the Elder Wand.

But he did not hear, scrambling through the trapdoor to kneel beside Snape, bent close to catch the man's last words.

"Take it," he gurgled, as a silvery blue substance leaked from his mouth, ears, and eyes. It looked like mercury mixed with a summer sky, contrasting horribly with the blood gushing from Snape's torn throat.

Harry looked around in desperation, unsure what to do, as Hermione conjured a glass flask and pressed it into her friend's hand. "It's his memories," she explained in a shaking voice.

Hermione stood in silence, watching Snape die. If this is what Voldemort did - unnecessarily - to one of his most talented and loyal followers, she could only pray that the professor's dying memories would help lead Harry to victory.

 **A/N: some of the dialogue above is adapted from DH.**


	5. Theo's Courage in a Bottle

_**May 1, 1998 - continued**_

Theo Nott had grown up on his now-elderly father's stories about the Knights of Walpurgis and their efforts to protect wizarding culture from encroaching Mudbloods. He had been so eager to be Marked, to show both his father and the Dark Lord that he was more than a weedy boy with a knack for Arithmancy.

Right before the battle began, Theo had snuck away from the mass of students being evacuated from the Great Hall, making his way to the upper levels of the school after cleverly Disillusioning himself. He figured that the topmost floors would see the most action, with his fellow Death Eaters able to breach the castle's defenses by entering through one or more of the many towers, and joining the fight there would allow him the best opportunity to prove himself as a Death Eater and impress the Dark Lord and Charlus Nott with his glorious deeds in battle

Now, thrashing in pain and on the verge of wetting himself, Theo realized he was just an idiot. There was no glory in battle, just blood and guts and a constant fear of pain and death at the end of someone else's wand.

His Disillusionment Charm must have worn off, or been spotty in places, because no sooner had he reached the seventh floor when a Mudblood from Gryffindor, a tall Black boy - was it Dan? Or Tom? - punched him in the nose and grabbed his wand. Then his friend, that half-blood Finnigan, put him under the Cruciactus Curse.

Suddenly, mercifully, the pain stopped.

"Seamus, what the fuck are you doing?" the dark-skinned boy screamed, his hand holding Finnnigan's wand arm off Theo. "That's an Unforgivable!"

"Don't I know it," the Irish wanker growled. "That's all we've learned at Hogwarts, all bloody year. You have to mean them, and this arsehole meant it when he used it on 'Vati and Lav and some poor sobbing firsties. Turnabout's fair play in my book, Dean."

Theo felt hot with sudden shame. He told himself had done what he had to do to, that he could not afford to be known as a Death Eater who was too soft to _Crucio_ his classmates, that he had held back and only made them cry, not scream and spasm with the pain like Finnigan had done to him, but he was not about to justify himself to two self-righteous Gryffindor punks.

Dean's eyes hardened in disgust as he looked at Theo, huddled into himself in the stone floor, but he kept an implacable hand on Finnigan's wrist. "He's the wannabe Dark wizard, not us," he told the sandy-haired boy. "I've got his wand, now let's go and fight some _real_ Death Eaters."

Seamus nodded with reluctance, but lowered his wand. He did, however, kick Theo hard under the ribs. "Fucking snake," he spat. "That's for hurting our girls."

Theo, left retching on the stone floor, found himself hoping that the two Gryffindor berks ran into Draco's mad Aunt Bellatrix. She would teach them the folly of looking for real Death Eaters, though it would almost certainly be the last lesson they ever learned. Still, when he saw Dean Thomas a quarter-hour later, the Gryffindor was acquitting himself well with Theo's stolen wand in a duel with Dolohov. Theo wished that his time with the Inquisitorial Squad had been as productive as Dean's sessions with Dumbledore's Army evidently had been, but Umbridge had only ever lectured the I.S. members on the utmost importance of obeying authority.

Theo had found a wand lying on the edge of a pile of rubble, near where a section of the outer castle wall had been blown away. The wand was responding reasonably well, well enough that he was looking for Finnigan for some revenge, but the Irish tosser was nowhere to be found. Instead, he cast a clever Tripping Jinx on a Ravenclaw girl who he knew from Arithmancy who was dueling Avery. Theo was terrible with names, but he thought her name was Sue or maybe Li. He mentally cheered when she went down, but found himself retching again when Avery hit her prone form with a Sectumsempra.

"Why'd you do that? You could have just Stunned her!" he screamed, horrified at the sight of his classmate's intestines and blood spilling out onto the floor.

Avery looked puzzled, then laughed coarsely. "I guess there is some point in keeping the pretty ones alive, but she was nothing special."

Theo turned away, sickened, to see Malfoy begging a masked Death Eater for his life. "I'm Draco, I'm on your side!"

Theo was certain that it was Rowle under the mask, from his massive build, and equally sure that Rowle knew damned well who Draco was. Malfoy had tortured him once on the Dark Lord's orders and now Rowle was out for his blood, happy to make the blond teen a victim of friendly fire.

 _Friendly fire isn't_ , Theo thought grimly. He raised his wand, the words of an Unforgivable on his lips. He and Malfoy were more allies than friends, but they had lived together for seven years and he liked him a long sight better than Rowle. Besides, Draco was a rising star in the Dark Lord's ranks, probably the only reason Lucius was still alive. Theo's father had advised him that he would be well-positioned if he could manage to make himself Draco's lieutenant and trusted confidante among the younger generation of Death Eaters.

Before Theo could cast the spell in Rowle's direction, the bulky Death Eater collapsed from a Stunner to the chest, the red bolt of light seemingly coming from out of nowhere. Draco staggered back, one hand covering his mouth, but not well enough to prevent blood from seeping through his fingers. Theo grabbed him by the arm and physically dragged him further down the corridor, to the fringes of the battle.

"Let me see," he demanded, pulling Draco's hand away. He was relieved to see it was nothing worse than a split lip.

"Some fucker punched me!" the blond complained.

"Be happy that's all it is," Theo said dryly. "I thought it was internal bleeding from a hex."

"Let's get Goyle and get out of here," Draco suggested. "This seems as good a time as any for some Slytherin self-preservation. It's a fucking bloodbath!"

At Draco's words, Goyle stepped from behind a stone column, surprisingly stealthy for such a large boy.

"What about the Dark Lord?" Theo asked. "He expects us to fight."

"He gave me a different mission," Draco said slyly, "one that I can best carry out from the safety of our dormitory. Greg lost his wand, so you can cover me on the way to the dungeons."

Theo was amenable and cast another Disillusionment Charm over himself, grimacing at feeling of cold egg running down his back. Draco Disillusioned himself and Greg, and the three of them made their way, undetected and unchallenged, to the lower levels of the castle.

On the second floor landing, Theo nearly tripped over the corpse of a Gryffindor boy. To his mild astonishment, Goyle stopped, a mourning expression on his heavy-browed face.

"That's Peakes," he muttered. "He was a good Beater for such a skinny little guy." With that epitath, Greg carefully picked up the body and transferred it to a window seat. "It's not right for him to get trampled," he explained self-consciously in the face of Malfoy's raised eyebrows and Theo's obvious impatience.

"Take his wand," Draco suggested, not ungently. "He doesn't need it anymore, but you do."

Goyle nodded slowly and took the wand from the boy's dead hand, which had not yet stiffened with rigor mortis. They continued on without speaking and reached the blank wall that guarded the Slytherin common room without any further incident.

" _Viperidae_ ," Draco said, causing the stone slab to slide open.

In silent accord, they walked past the common room to their dormitory. Draco immediately crossed to the trunk at the foot of his bed - naturally he had claimed the best location, furthest from the door - and began to rummage. He tossed a bottle of Firewhiskey to Greg and pulled a mokeskin pouch from his trunk. "Get the glasses, will you?" he asked Theo. "Bottom left drawer."

Greg poured two generous fingers into each of the tumblers Theo found and set on Draco's desk. Theo took his glass greedily, pleased to see his hand was not trembling, and sucked the burning liquor down his throat. It eased the cold fear in his stomach and took the edge of what he had experienced that night, just a little.

"Why in Salazar's name are you carrying around a bloody tiara?" he asked Draco, as the blond took a piece of jewelry from beneath his robes.

"It's not a tiara. It's a die-dum," Goyle corrected.

Theo rolled his eyes and leaned forward to touch the sapphire set in the platinum diadem. "Magnificent," he said reverently.

Draco slapped his hand away. "It's evil, and it belongs to the Dark Lord. It's worth your life to touch the diadem without _his_ permission." He dropped the diadem into the pouch and tugged the drawstring tight, muttering some warding spells under his breath.

"It wasn't worth Vince's life," Greg objected sadly, staring into the depths of his Firewhiskey.

Draco awkwardly patted his shoulder. "The Dark Lord will honor his sacrifice, and his father will be proud."

Theo thought Malfoy was usually a more convincing liar.

"His mum will be sad, though," Goyle objected. "Me, too. I wish that - "

"To Vince," Theo said, raising his nearly empty glass in a hasty toast. He suspected that Greg was about to say something stupid and possibly treasonous, and he did not want to be in a position where he was obligated to rat him out to the Dark Lord.

Draco gave him a grateful nod and held out the whiskey bottle. "Want some more?" he offered.

"What if we need to go and fight again?" Theo asked uneasily.

The blond shrugged. "That's what Sober-Up Potion is for. Drink up - it helps. I learnt that last year," he added, with nearly imperceptible bitterness.

Theo did not protest again at the offered refill.

"Where's Blaise?" Draco asked, a short while later.

Theo answered easily, feeling a pleasant heat from the Firewhiskey radiating throughout his body. "He left with the girls. They evacuated everyone who wanted to leave before the battle. The jammy bastard's probably halfway to Italy by now."

"Zabini's always been lucky like that," Draco observed with envy.

Greg grunted in agreement and took deep swallow. "Wish I was there, 'stead of this hellhole. I hate Hogwarts."

Draco raised his glass. "Here's to Blaise - may he invite us all to his villa so that we can get the fuck out of England."

"Italy's nice this time of year," Theo agreed mildly, glad that he was not the only one whose tongue had been loosened by alcohol. He trusted Draco more than any other Death Eater besides his own father, but that was not saying much. "What do you think is going on out there?"

"I dunno," Greg said uneasily.

"They were putting up a real fight," Draco said neutrally, "but Potter can't possibly hope to defeat the Dark Lord."

"What if he does, though?" Theo whispered.

A high, cold voice interrupted them.

"You have fought, valiantly. Lord Voldemort knows how to value bravery." The voice seemed to seep into the castle, through the very cracks in the mortar. Theo forced himself not to shiver and caught Greg doing the same.

"Yeah, he thinks it's fucking worthless," Draco muttered, still under the influence and the least affected by the hateful hissing. Theo supposed he was used to it, with the Dark Lord living in his house.

"Lord Voldemort is merciful. I command my forces to retreat immediately. I shall wait one hour in the Forbidden Forest," the Dark Lord stated.

With a sigh, Theo got to his feet. He hated the forest, but at least he knew where to go.

The Dark Lord continued to speak, offering an hour's truce and commanding Potter to come to him. "You have until midnight, Harry Potter. If, at the end of that hour, you have not given yourself up, then battle recommences. . . . I shall punish every last man, woman, and child who has tried to conceal you from me."

Theo shuddered, even though the threat was not addressed to him. "So, I guess we'd better go," he said awkwardly to Malfoy, who still was lounging on his bed.

"The Dark Lord ordered me to guard the diadem until he came to Hogwarts," Draco said, handing over a vial of Sober-Up Potion to Theo. "Greg isn't Marked, and I want him to stay here."

"I'm on my own then?" Theo asked, trying to hide how hurt and scared and young he felt.

"You'll be fine," Draco said. "There's a cease-fire. Potter will give himself up like the stupid arse that he is and this will all be over."

Theo nodded and tried to look as though he believed him.

 **A/N: Voldemort's lines are from DH.**


	6. Neville Makes a Promise

**_May 1, 1998 - continued_**

Neville Longbottom, Professor Sprout and Hannah Abbott were in Greenhouse Six, where the most dangerous magical plants were kept, when Voldemort's chilling voice echoed throughout the castle and grounds, offering a cease-fire for an hour.

"Do you think it's a trick?" Hannah asked. For a girl who had once collapsed into hysterics and had to leave an exam, she had been remarkably cool-headed in battle, using spells to fling mandrakes amongst the Death Eaters seeking entrance into Hogwarts. Her fluffy pink ear muffs still were around her neck, even though Greenhouse Six was now denuded of mandrakes and virtually everything else, other than the Venomous Tentacula. At over two meters wide, there was no practical way to use the massive plant as a weapon.

"I believe it's a legitimate cease-fire," Professor Sprout replied, wiping her forehead with a handkerchief. "The Death Eaters are pulling back."

Neville nodded. Through the glass walls of the greenhouse, he had a clear view of the Death Eaters marching purposefully towards the Forbidden Forest.

"They're regrouping," he said, with the confidence acquired over a school year leading Dumbledore's Army, which was now closer to a guerrilla force than a DADA study club. "We gave them much more of a fight than they anticipated, and now Voldemort needs to reassess his tactics."

"You should get that seen to," he suggested, nodding towards a deep gash on Hannah's right arm, bound with a makeshift bandage torn from her school robes.

"I will, Nev," Hannah promised. She rose to her tiptoes and gave him a hug but no kiss, constrained by presence of their Herbology professor and her Head of House. "Come with me to the Great Hall?"

Neville shook his head and gently released her. "You'll see me there, but I'm going to check outside for anyone who's wounded."

"Alright, Commander," Hannah offered a cheeky salute and a smile that had Neville still grinning as he left the greenhouse.

His good mood faded fast as he walked through the grounds, sobered by the number of casualties strewn about the grounds like discarded dolls. A very few had just been Stunned, and he was able to Ennervate them and send them into the Great Hall on shaky legs, but most remained unmoving when he tried to revive them. They were unmarked in death, victims of the Killing Curse. Then there were the others, the ones killed by Dark curses that were somehow not considered Unfirgivable, even though they cut a person into ribbons or made their entrails explode. Neville knew that these were the bodies that would haunt his dreams for many nights to come.

Neville marked the location of all the corpses with magical sparklers, so that he could return for them later if time permitted, and continued looking for those who were not yet beyond help. There were precious few of the those still on the grounds, all of whom had injuries that exceeded his relatively meager skills as a field medic. For those, he sent up sparks of a different colors, for the Aurors - who were trained in triage Healing - to retrieve. Neville told himself that all of the walking wounded had already made their way to the Great Hall, and hoped to Merlin that accounted for the majority of his D.A. soldiers.

"Need a hand?" asked Oliver Wood. The former captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, now a professional Keeper, certainly was muscular enough to assist.

Tired as he was, Neville nodded. "I think we have all the wounded, and now it's time to take care of our dead."

Oliver conjured a stretcher and they began what felt like an endless series of trips to the Great Hall. Voldemort's allotted hour was nearly three-quarters spent when they found Colin Creevey, his small body almost entirely hidden under a clump of bushes in one of the courtyards. They lifted him onto the stretcher with little physical effort, as Neville wondered about what kind of person could _Avada_ a sixteen-year-old boy who looked closer to fourteen.

"You know what? I can manage him alone, Neville," Oliver said, before they reached the entrance of the Great Hall.

Neville relinquished his hold on Colin and retraced his steps, concentrating on placing one foot in front of the other so he would not have to think more troubling thoughts, like how even slight bodies like Colin's felt heavier in death.

He was bending over another body, checking to see if it was one of theirs or a Death Eater who could be left on the damp ground, when Harry Potter was suddenly _right there_ , standing on the other side of the black-robed corpse.

"Blimey, Harry! You nearly gave me heart failure!" Neville burst out. His upbringing by his stern grandmother kept his vocabulary from being any more colorful at Harry's uncanny appearance, seemingly out of nowhere.

Then Neville's eyes narrowed. Harry was alone, without Ron or Hermione, and instead of rallying the troops in the Great Hall he was walking in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

"Harry, you're not thinking of turning yourself over?" Neville asked with a hardness to his voice that seemed to surprise Harry. Of course, Harry had been gone from Hogwarts for a year and probably still remembered Neville as an awkward, magically-challenged firstie.

"Of course not," Harry said, a shade too glibly. "But I may be out of sight for a little while. It's all part of the plan. There's something I've got to do."

"What plan?" Neville asked suspiciously.

"Dumbledore's plan," Harry said, with sincerity.

Even though Neville thought Harry was telling him the truth, he still was skeptical of this so-called plan. Dumbledore had been brilliant, it was true, but he also had been dead for more than ten long months. If this past year had taught Neville anything, it was the importance of flexibility and accounting for contingencies when planning. Before he could voice these concerns, Harry continued, with a faintly desperate look in his eyes.

"You know Voldemort's snake, Nev? He's got a huge snake, calls it Nagini."

"Yeah, what of it?" Neville asked cautiously.

"It's got to be killed, as part of the plan. Hermione and Ron know, but just in case they're busy or something . . . " Harry's voice trailed off, unable to articulate the horrible possibility that his two best friends might die before they could carry out the snake-killing part of the plan.

"Kill the snake?" Neville clarified. It sounded deceptively simple, unless Harry was omitting something crucial. If he had known earlier, he would have had every D.A. member hunting the thing.

"Kill the snake," Harry confirmed.

"You're okay, aren't you?" Neville asked uneasily. There was something off about Harry, something almost fey. It sent a shiver down Neville's spine.

"I'm fine," Harry smiled mechanically. "Thanks, Neville."

"We're going to keep fighting, Harry. You know that?" Neville spoke bravely, trying to give Harry what comfort he could. He patted his housemate's shoulder in wordless comfort.

"Yeah, I - " Harry began, and then broke off. "There's something else you need to know, Nev."

"Oh?" Neville raised an eyebrow. He suspected there were many other things he needed to know, but he would take what crumbs he could get.

"First, I want you to take this." Harry handed over a shimmering, sleek-feeling bundle of cloth. "It's an Invisibility Cloak. It's a family heirloom - Luna knows all about it. And Hermione knows everything, of course."

A ghost of a smile crossed Harrry's face at the thought of his know-it-all friend.

He cut off Neville's protest. "I won't need it anymore, not for my part of the plan. And maybe you can use it to sneak up on the snake."

Neville took it, running a reverent hand over the cloak. "Alright, Harry," he agreed.

Harry drew in a deep breath. "Second, there was a prophecy. It could have applied to either of us, because it talked about a baby born at the end of the seventh month, whose parents had defied Voldemort. We've both got birthdays at the end of July, and our mums and dads were in the Order."

Slowly, Neville nodded. His birthday was the day before Harry's, and his parents had paid a steep price for opposing Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

"Dumbledore thought the prophecy applied to me, because it said the Dark Lord would mark the one with the power to defeat him 'as an equal.'" Self-consciously, Harry touched the lightning bolt-shaped scare hidden under his messy black bangs. "But if something happens, and the plan doesn't work, maybe it means you."

"Prophecies are tricky like that," Neville agreed. "What _precisely_ did it say?"

Harry glanced at a battered gold watch, showing only five minutes were left before Voldemort's ceasefire expired. "I need to go. Ask Hermione - she can tell you the exact wording. But if anything happens to me, you're our last hope to end it."

"I'll do my best," Neville promised.

Harry gave him a searching look, his green eyes hard as emeralds. "I'm not just asking you to try and kill Voldemort. You may need to die." His voice cracked at the last word.

Neville drew his spare wand - his father's wand, the one he kept strapped to his ankle, the one who had increasingly grown into over the last several months. It seemed fitting. "I solemnly swear, on my magic and on all that I hold dear, that I will do whatever it takes to defeat Voldemort," he vowed.

"You didn't have to swear it, Nev," Harry said, looking troubled. "I trust you."

"Some things are too important for just words," Neville shrugged. He held out his hand. "Good luck with your plan."

Harry shook his hand, solemnly. Then he Disillusioned himself. "See you around, Neville," he called from somewhere in the darkness.

"See you," Neville answered. "On the other side," he added in a whisper. He was mortally certain Dumbledore's plan was a suicide mission and he would never see Harry Potter alive again.

 **A/N: some of the conversation between Harry and Neville is adapted from DH. Also, I highly recommend _Dumbledore's Army and the Year of Darkness_ , by Thanfiction (on this site) which inspired me to write Neville as a major character. **


	7. Theo Finds Something Useful

**_May 2, 1998_**

In the wee hours of the morning, it was dark and ominously quiet in the clearing in the Forbidden Forest. Theo had taken his place in the circle of Death Eaters, standing between his father and Lucius Malfoy. Lucius looked how Theo felt - terrified and defeated. Draco's Sober-Up Potion had done its job all too well, and the warmth and confidence generated by Firewhiskey had disappeared. Despite the fire crackling in the middle of the circle, Theo shivered.

"Stay still, boy," Charlus Nott whispered, a faint thread of sound. _If you know what's good for you_ was left unsaid, but Theo understood his father's words were a combined warning and threat. He squared his shoulders and stood still, as though Petrified, watching the Dark Lord out of the corner of his eye.

Dolohov and Yaxley, who had ventured into the forest to search for Potter, returned empty-handed. Voldemort looked up from his unnaturally spindly hands at their arrival, red eyes gleaming.

"No sign of him, my Lord," Dolohov cringed, clearly expecting the Dark Lord to shoot - or _Crucio_ \- the messenger. The red eyes seemed to burn in the firelight, as Voldemort clenched his palm around his bone-white wand, the color within a shade or two of his pale fingers.

"My Lord - " Bellatrix began, in reverent tones, as though addressing a god.

Voldemort merely raised a hand and she fell silent.

"I expected Potter to come," the Dark Lord mused, speaking to the flames.

To be honest, so had Theo. He did not know Potter well, had never had the sort of poisonous rivalry with him that Draco did, but the so-called Chosen One seemed like exactly the stupid sort to give himself up based on an enemy's worthless promise.

"I was, it seems . . . mistaken," the Dark Lord hissed in a menacing fashion.

Theo wondered, abstractly, which Death Eater would pay for that mistake with his life. He almost wished it would be him. Looking around the silent ring of his fellow Death Eaters, who all were either miserable or mad or both, Theo now realized that he would lose no matter who won. Azkaban or service to the Dark Lord - it was a toss-up as to which was worse.

"You weren't mistaken," said Harry Potter.

Theo's eyes darted to the edge of the firelight, where Potter stood, his wand tucked into his pocket. _Bloody idiot_ , Theo thought. His sharp eyes saw a smooth, dark object drop from Potter's hand onto the forest floor as the Death Eaters cheered and jeered.

"Show how excited you are," his father commanded, with a bony finger poking Theo's ribcage. Theo let out a few obligatory whoops.

"Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived." The Dark Lord cocked his head to one side, looking at the dark-haired boy with curiosity. He raised his wand. "No longer."

Theo, standing by in silent observation with the rest of the Death Eaters, marveled that Potter could meet those red eyes without flinching.

" _Avada Kedavra_!" A sickly green jet of light from the Dark Lord's wand hit Potter squarely in the chest. The teen collapsed, face-down in the grass, like a puppet whose strings had been severed.

Before any cheering could break out, the Dark Lord swayed where he stood and fell to the ground. Bellatrix ran forward to assist him, followed by a few other members of his inner circle, Theo's father among them. As a junior Death Eater, Theo felt no obligation to join them. Lucius Malfoy also stayed behind, a very faint expression of hope flitting across his face.

"My lord," Bellatrix crooned, over and over. "My lord."

Theo's father, more practical, Transfigured a rock into a pillow and placed it beneath the Dark Lord's head. Rookwood took the liberty of feeling for a pulse.

"My lord," Bellatrix repeated, bereft as he remained unresponsive.

"That will do," Voldemort warned them off, in a weak but icy tone. Undeterred, Bellatrix continued to kneel beside him as the other Death Eaters prudently returned to their places.

"The boy - is he dead?" Voldemort inquired.

When no one answered, he hit Narcissa Malfoy in the cheek with a hex. Theo did not recognize it, but her skin blistered immediately as she bit back a shriek of pain.

"You," the Dark Lord ordered her, as though she were the meanest of servants, rather than a daughter of the House of Black and wife to the wealthiest wizard in magical Great Britain. "Examine him. Tell me whether he is dead."

With Theo and every other Death Eater watching, Narcissa scurried to Potter's side, one hand over her injured cheek. She knelt over the apparently dead boy, her other hand on his chest to check for a heartbeat and her long hair shielding Potter's face. Then she sat back with a slight frown and took Potter's wand from his pocket. Theo remembered that she was wandless, having given her own wand to Draco after Potter disarmed him at Malfoy Manor.

Narcissa used Potter's wand - really Draco's - to conjure a mirror. Theo caught an extra whisper of sound after the words to the spell, but he could not make out her words. Bending over Potter again, Narcissa held the mirror to his mouth. She presented its unfogged surface to Voldemort. "He is dead!" she called out.

As the Death Eaters yelled and screamed in joy, Narcissa straightened and returned to her place next to Lucius, the wand still clutched in her hand. Theo kept a smirk pasted on his face as the Dark Lord cast the Cruciactus Curse on Potter's corpse and tossed it into the air like a rag doll.

"Now we go to the castle, and show them what has become of their hero," Voldemort sneered. "Who shall drag the body?"

Theo hoped he would not be chosen, as he had no desire to handle any corpse, especially that of Harry Potter.

The Dark Lord laughed, softly. "Pick up your little friend, Hagrid. He will be nice and visible in your arms. Now _move_ ," he ordered.

Hagrid stumbled through the tears in his eyes as Death Eaters surrounded him, front and back, and began retracing their route to Hogwarts Castle in a triumphant procession.

Theo lingered in the clearing, deliberately dropping his wand in a facsimile of an over-exuberant celebration so that he could scrabble on the ground where Potter had dropped something. Theo did not know precisely _what_ it was, only that he wanted it.

Retrieving his wand, he cast a _Lumos_ and found a large, black pebble nearly under his fingertips. Theo could make out a circle, bisected by a line and enclosed in a triangle. The stone was flawed, with an irregular crack down the middle, but Theo thought it could be fixed by magic. He decided that he would keep it and maybe have it set into a ring. With that resolved, Theo dropped the pebble in his pocket and left the clearing at a trot, catching up with the last of the Death Eaters.

"Where were you, Theo?" his father asked. With Harry Potter dead, the ever-cautious Charlus, a solicitor by training, had dared to pull off his mask. The question was a suspicious one, not a mere idle query.

In a case like this, with a parent who knew Legilemency, Theo had long since learned it was best to stay as close as possible to the truth. "I thought Potter dropped something, and I stayed behind to look for it. There are rumors he has an Invisibility Cloak."

Charlus looked intrigued. "Did you find it?"

"No, I didn't find the cloak," Theo said, with real regret. Such a thing would be incredibly useful.

"Too bad," his father stated. Before he could question Theo further about whether he had found anything and, if so, what had he found, the Death Eaters halted at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

"Harry Potter is dead," Voldemort gloated, his voice magically enhanced to reach every nook and cranny within Hogwarts Castle. "He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him _._ "

Theo suppressed a wince at the lie as the Dark Lord continued his speech. Potter had been many things Theo deplored - reckless, rash, cocky, a Gryffindor and a half-blood - but he had been anything but a coward.

" . . . Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family. Come out of the castle now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters, will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together," Voldemort concluded.

Theo kept his expression carefully blank. It would not do to allow his blatant skepticism for this supposed brave new world to show on his face.

The Dark Lord gestured for his troops to move forward, towards to silent castle. "Now, we go and accept their surrender," he said.

Theo's blank facade cracked, just a bit, and one skeptical eyebrow rose. Somehow, he did not think victory would come that easy.

 **A/N: Some of the dialogue is quoted directly from DH.**


	8. Neville Gets Sorted

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

As the cease-fire expired, Neville made his way back to the Great Hall. His mind was reeling at what Harry had divulged. He was sorely tempted to grab Hermione away from the Ravenclaw table, where she was sprinkling dittany on Hannah's wounded arm with a steady hand, and demand the details of the prophecy. Instead, he let her work, and thought about how to kill the snake.

Voldemort's voice insinuated itself once more into Hogwarts Castle. "Harry Potter is dead," he gloated. "He was killed as he ran away, trying to save himself while you lay down your lives for him."

"No!" Ginny's anguished whisper cut through the appalled silence that had fallen over the Great Hall.

"Harry would never - " Ron yelled indignantly, cut off by the Dark Lord's implacable words. "We bring you his body as proof your hero is gone."

Neville saw Hermione shaking her head in vehement denial as Voldemort's magically-enhanced voice echoed throughout the Great Hall. "The battle is won. You have lost half of your fighters. My Death Eaters outnumber you, and the Boy Who Lived is finished."

Looking around the Great Hall, Neville realized that Voldemort had in fact underestimated their losses. Roughly a third of the fighters for the Light were dead, arranged in neat rows along the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables that stretched on and on. Another third were wounded, most severely enough that they needed to be in St. Mungo's, not stretched out on the Ravenclaw and Slytherin tables awaiting whatever limited treatment Madam Pomfrey and her helpers could provide.

He dropped his head to his hands, overwhelmed at the casualties and the knowledge that he was now the wizarding world's only hope to defeat Voldemort. "It's my fault. It's all my fault," he muttered.

"Stuff and nonsense!" his grandmother said stoutly, patting his hand. "No one could expect any more from you."

Hannah made her way to his side, cradling her freshly bandaged arm. "We're schoolchildren, Neville, outnumbered three to one by Death Eaters and _monsters_! Giants, and werewolves, and acromantulas, and other horrid things. If it weren't for you and the D.A., we all would have been slaughtered," the blonde Hufflepuff loyally consoled him. "We've done the best we could with what we have."

Neville found himself nodding, but worried their best - _his_ best, depending on what the prophecy said and if it was to be believed - simply was not good enough against the Dark forces Voldemort had arrayed against them.

"There must be no more war," Voldemort interrupted his less-than-brave thoughts. "Anyone who continues to resist, man, woman or child, will be slaughtered, as will every member of their family."

Across the hall, Neville saw Molly Weasley biting her lip in anguish. She had already lost one son, but she and the rest of the Weasleys stood to lose so much. All of them except Charlie were there in the castle.

"Come out now, kneel before me, and you shall be spared. Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters, will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together," Voldemort coaxed in his hissing voice.

"He's a filthy, rotten liar," Ginny yelled. "I _know_ him. Tom Riddle was in my head when I was eleven. He lied to me then, and he's lying now. There'll be no forgiveness for us if he wins."

"Voldemort's promises are worth less than leprechaun gold," his Gran snorted. "I'm an old woman and I've already lived most of my life, but I would rather die than kneel to that monster."

Grim nods greeted her words. Kingsley Shacklebolt stood on a chair, his deep voice carrying to every corner of the room. "I agree with Ginevra and Augusta. I shall lead the remaining Aurors and all who wish to join us outside, for what may be our last stand."

To a person, those who could stand and walk filed silently towards the massive double doors leading to the outside. Neville walked between his grandmother and Hannah, each holding one of his hands. Hannah's hand felt small within his, but his Gran's gnarled grip was surprisingly strong and warm.

The doors swung open at Professor McGonagall's command. "NO!" she shrieked.

Neville shoved his way forward to see for himself what had caused the stern Transfiguration teacher to make such a despairing sound. Hermione, Ron and Ginny were ahead of him.

"No! No!" Harry's best friends cried, echoing Professor McGonagall's denial.

"Harry! Harry!" Ginny screamed, at the sight of her boyfriend, limp and battered in Hagrid's arms.

Voldemort was speaking, but Neville paid no heed to his words, focused instead on the massive snake curled around the Dark Lord's shoulders. With his height, Neville had a clear shot at the snake, but he needed to be nearer, to ensure his aim was true. He took one step closer to the Death Eaters' ranks, and then another.

" . . . killed while trying to save himself . . . " Voldemort's hissing slander of Harry Potter broke off as Neville charged.

" _Diffindo_!" he shouted, trying to sever the snake's head from its body. His hex hit home, but the red line healed almost instantly before his disbelieving eyes, replaced with new scales.

With a cold laugh, Voldemort Disarmed him. "And who is this?" he asked softly.

Bellatrix giggled in insane delight. "This is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble. The son of the Aurors, remember?" From the evil glee in her voice, it was apparent she had fond memories of torturing Neville's parents into insanity.

"Ah, yes. I do remember," said Voldemort, as Neville struggled to his feet, defenseless without a wand but still defiant. In his hand, he held a rock, to make a second attempt on the snake.

"Aren't you a pureblood, my brave boy?" the Dark Lord asked.

"So what if I am?" Neville sneered. Blood purity was all bollocks, in his opinion.

"You show spirit and bravery, and you come of noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death Eater. We want your kind, Neville Longbottom," Voldemort flattered him.

"I'll join you when hell freezes over," Neville refused. "Dumbledore's Army!" he added with a shout.

"Very well," Voldemort said, with quiet venom. "If that is your choice, on your head be it."

Neville braced himself for the red light and pain of a _Crucio_ , or the green light of an _Avada_ , but Voldemort instead swirled his wand in the air in a complicated summoning gesture that brought -

"The Sorting Hat?" Neville asked, puzzled.

"There will be no more Sorting at Hogwarts," Voldemort stated. "The emblem, shield and colors of my noble ancestor, Salazar Slytherin, will suffice for everyone. Won't they, Neville?"

But Neville could not reply, as Voldemort Petrified him with a casual flick of his wand. He placed the Sorting Hat on Neville's head and used wordless magic to repair his tattered school robes and change the maroon and gold lion to a silver and green snake.

Voldemort smiled at Neville. "Now that Mr. Longbottom is presentable, he will demonstrate what happens to anyone foolish enough to continue to oppose me." Nagini slipped from Voldemort's shoulders and twined around Neville's feet, hissing with excitement. Voldemort gave another flick of his wand and the Hat burst into flames.

The searing, burning agony around Neville's forehead allowed him to break free of the Body-Bind Curse and pull off the Sorting Hat. On instinct, he reached inside the still-smoldering Hat, thinking there might be a wand in its depths. Instead, his hand closed around a cold metal hilt. In a single, fluid motion, Neville pulled the sword from the Hat and swung it downwards at the snake, beheading it.

He collapsed to the ground, waiting for Voldemort to end him. As though from a great distance, he could hear the Death Eaters shrieking and screaming as a hail of arrows, some flaming and some with poisoned tips, fell into their midst. Despite the pain encircling his forehead, Neville smiled grimly. Kingsley's and Professor McGonagall's last-minute parlay with the centaurs had paid off. If the Light won, the centaur herd would own the entire Forbidden Forest, but it was a price well worth paying for their aid.

"Harry!" Hagrid bellowed. "Where's Harry?"

Through his eyelashes, Neville saw Voldemort lower his wand. The brief flash of panic across his reptilian face gave Neville hope.

"You two - deal with the Longbottom boy," Voldemort snapped. "Keep him alive, for now, and try to persuade him to see reason. I'll deal with Potter."

Voldemort strode away and two sets of black boots moved into Neville's field of vision. Hearing a dark chuckle, he looked up into the bearded, evilly smiling faces of the Lestrange brothers.

The older brother, Rodolphus, grinned at him. "Ickle Neville Longbottom, all grown up. The last time we were at your house and wanted to play with you, your parents had you hidden away."

"They wouldn't tell us where you were, no matter what we did to them," Rabastan chimed in.

Neville swallowed hard. "Your master told you to keep me alive," he said.

"For now," Rodolphus genially agreed. "But that doesn't mean we can't have some fun with you."

The Lestrange brothers raised their wands and pointed them at Neville's prone form. " _Crucio_!" they cried, in a gleeful duet.

 **A/N: some dialogue is adapted from DH.**


	9. Ginny's Worst Moment

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

Before today, the worst moment in Ginny's life had been waking up in the Hospital Wing to the horror and guilt that she had Petrified her friends and classmates while under the control of Voldemort's evil diary. Hot chocolate and the scolding she had received for "allowing" herself to be possessed by a Dark wizard had not helped, but at least she had the comfort of knowing that no one had died. Once the mandrake potion was administered, everyone recovered fully with time - even Ginny.

Today, people _had_ died, people she loved. She had seen Fred crushed to death by a falling castle wall and had stood at the foot of the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, staring numbly at his body while her family mourned around her, trying to understand how someone so alive could just be gone. Fred's face looked _serious_ in death - there was no trace left of the mischief that had made him Ginny's most and least favorite brother, depending on his latest prank and who he had played it upon.

Then she had seen Harry, the first boy she had truly loved, dead at Voldemort's hand, with Hagrid sobbing over his body. Seeing Harry dead made her viciously determined to send as many Death Eaters as possible to join him on the other side of the Veil. She would mourn him with spells, not tears. And if she died in a duel, Ginny could think of worse fates than joining Harry in the afterlife.

When the centaurs launched their assault, the tide of panicking Death Eaters forced Ginny and the other witches and wizards fighting for the Light back into the Great Hall, where the battle resumed with a vengeance. George had Disarmed Yaxley and now was pummeling the Dark wizard's face into a shapeless pulp as Lee Jordan guarded his back. Dolohov collapsed screaming, decisively defeated by Professor Flitwick, while Hagrid compensated for his lack of a wand by bodily flinging Walden Macnair into a wall. Percy, who she had previously thought was a model employee, was once again dueling his boss, Pius Thicknesse, this time with Ron's help. In the middle of the Great Hall, however, Voldemort and a few elite Death Eaters were creating a wide swath of destruction.

Closer to the center of the hall, Ginny saw Rookwood knocked out by Aberforth's Stunner. She began fighting her way in from the perimeter of the battle, dodging maddened house-elves and panicked parents searching for their children. Rookwood's Blasting Curse had brought down the wall that killed Fred. He had been lucky to slither away from her and Percy earlier, but now he was unconscious and had no hope of escape.

"Did you miss me, Mudblood? We can finish what I started at Malfoy Manor, if you insist!" cackled Bellatrix, her wand trained on Hermione. The two witches began to duel, but it was clear Hermione was struggling, handicapped by trying to use Bellatrix's own walnut wand against her.

" _Crucio_!" Bellatrix laughed madly as Hermione began to scream.

"Leave her alone!" Ginny yelled, distracting Bellatrix with a Stinging Hex to her wand arm, while Luna ran over, casting a shield charm over Hermione.

Bellatrix turned on Ginny with a snarl. " _Avada Kedavra_!"

Reflexively, Ginny leapt away, missing death by an inch. She returned fire with a nasty hex Amycus Carrow had foolishly taught her in Dark Arts, but Bellatrix whirled out of the way.

"Not my daughter, you bitch!" Molly Weasley charged past Ginny, Luna and a still-shaky Hermione.

Bellatrix giggled at the motherly witch. "What will happen to your children when I kill you?" she taunted. "Maybe they'll all be dead, too!"

Her smile faded, however, as Molly slashed her wand in a whip-like motion. Bellatrix staggered under the hex and the two witches began to duel in earnest, exchanging deadly bolts of light at a dizzying speed. The stone floor under both of their feet cracked and began to sizzle from the force of their spells.

"Stand back!" Molly ordered, as others ran forward to join her. Bellatrix was not so noble. Ginny caught her subtly gesturing for a pair of still-masked Death Eaters to assist. She did not have a clear shot at either of them through the gawping crowd, but Luna Stunned one and Neville's elderly gran Petrified the other.

Ginny cringed as her mother, red-faced and panting, barely dodged a fatal curse. Bellatrix, sensing that her opponent was tiring, screeched with laughter. "Mummy's going to go the same way as poor ickle Freddy," she predicted.

With that, Ginny raised her wand and hit Voldemort's lieutenant with a simple Tripping Jinx, not willing to risk anything more lethal amidst the crowd. She had never been a very obedient daughter, and saw no reason to start now. Bellatrix stumbled, and a sickly yellow jet of light from Molly's wand hit her in the chest, directly above her heart. Ginny recognized the spell - it was the one her mum used to quickly and painlessly kill the chickens intended for the Weasleys' dinner table. Like those hapless hens, Bellatrix's eyes bulged and she toppled to the ground as her heart stopped.

The spectators roared in approval, even some of the watching Death Eaters, but Voldemort screamed in rage. The force of his anger and magic flung his three opponents - Kingsley and Professors McGonagall and Flitwick - to the ground, but the Dark Lord's red eyes were fixed on Molly Weasley.

" _Protego_!" Ginny cried. Hermione and Luna had joined her in shielding her mum, but there had been a male voice as well, one she never thought to hear again.

"Harry!" Ginny cried joyfully, as he dropped his Disillusionment Charm. He gave her a quick smile, but then his green eyes shifted to Voldemort.

"I don't want anyone else to try to help," Harry warned, clearly having seen her trip Bellatrix. "It's got to be me who defeats him. Neither of us can live while the other survives, and one of us is about to leave for good."

"And you think you'll be the one to survive?" Voldemort jeered. "The Boy Who Lived by sheer accident, by crouching and sniveling behind the robes of wizards and witches greater than himself?"

"Yes," Harry said simply. "You have no more Horcruxes."

Ginny blinked at the unfamiliar term. She would get Harry to explain later.

"Foolish boy," Voldemort shook his head, red eyes gleaming in triumph. "I have the Elder Wand. And you have nothing."

"Harry, take mine!" Ron pushed his way through the crowd and thrust his willow wand into Harry's hand.

"Where's Malfoy's wand?" Hermione fretted to herself. She was pressed close enough to Ginny's back for her to overhear. "Harry ran off under the cloak before I could tell him about the Elder Wand."

Ginny was indifferent to Ferret Boy's wand and much more focused on Harry. Currently, he was taunting Voldemort about Snape's true loyalties. She was shocked that the greasy bat had been on their side all along.

Voldemort did not seem especially upset at Snape's betrayal. He smiled slowly at Harry's revelation. "I killed Severus Snape three hours ago, so that the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny truly would be mine! Now, I have no reason to regret his loss, only that he did not die more slowly. You have no chance to defeat me, Harry Potter. Dumbledore's last plan went wrong."

"We'll see," Harry said bravely. "But before you try to kill me, I suggest you think about what you've done. Think, and try for some remorse."

"I regret nothing," Voldemort said coldly. " _Avada Kedavra_!"

"Expelliarmus!" Harry cried simultaneously.

The two spells each hit their mark. The Elder Wand flew out of Voldemort's hand in a lazy arc, falling into Greg Goyle's beefy hand, but Harry fell backward, arms splayed and green eyes blank.

Harry's body hit the stone floor of the Great Hall with a mundane finality. Ginny's world ended. This was and always would be the worst moment of her life.

Then, all hell broke loose.

 **A/N: As usual, some of the characters' lines are quoted or adapted from DH. Dramione101 - thanks for the comment. I take my genres seriously, so this is coded as suspense for a reason! Unlike a couple of my earlier stories, which had single chapters that were 10K+ words, I am trying for shorter chapters, all from a single pov, but quicker updates.**

 **Just curious - who do ya'll think is the current master (or mistress) of the Elder Wand?**


	10. Draco the Dutiful Son

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

After Theo left for the Forbidden Forest in obedience to the Dark Lord's summons, Draco and Greg stayed in their dormitory, drinking Firewhiskey in an uneasy waiting game. At one point, Greg suggested a game of Exploding Snap to pass the time, but Draco refused. He had seen his fill of things blowing up.

It was closer to dawn than midnight and Greg had dozed off when the Dark Lord's voice rang out through the castle, announcing that Harry Potter was dead.

"Greg, wake up!" Draco said loudly, shaking his snoring friend by the shoulder. "We need to get upstairs."

"Whaah?" Greg asked groggily, rubbing his eyes.

"The Dark Lord is returning to Hogwarts and bringing Potter's body. We need to be there to greet him and show what loyal followers we are," Draco explained, handing him a vial of Sober-Up Potion and chugging down his own.

"Oh, yeah," Greg said in dull understanding.

Now sober, Draco had the presence of mind to retrieve the diadem, cast enough charms to make Goyle and himself presentable, and to Disillusion them both for the trip up to the Great Hall.

They stepped into a melee, with panicked students, parents and house-elves desperately trying to evade the crossfire as Death Eaters, masked and unmasked, dueled grim-faced members of the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's Army.

"There's my dad!" Goyle said, with relief. "And look, Drake - there are your parents, too."

Some of the tension left Draco's shoulders. His parents were apparently uninjured other than a mark on his mother's cheek. Rather than fighting, they were scanning the crowd with anxious eyes, searching for him.

"Mother! Father!" Draco called, trying to get their attention as soon as they were in earshot. It was incredibly loud in the Great Hall, with shouted spells competing with the screams of the wounded or merely frightened. "Dad! Mum!" he yelled at the top of his lungs, abandoning any pretense of Malfoy dignity.

Hagrid bellowed something about Harry Potter that Draco could not make out, and did not care to. All that he cared about was that neither of his parents were injured and that they were running full tilt towards him, blond hair streaming behind them, with Lucius tugging Narcissa by the hand to help her run faster in her high-heeled boots. Greg grinned and lumbered away to find his own father as Draco's parents pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Draco? Thank Merlin you are well!" his mother exclaimed fervently, ducking behind a wooden window screen and holding him at arm's length to reassure herself he was unhurt. "Is that smoke I smell?" she asked, sniffing his hair.

"Yes, Vince cast Fiendfyre but lost control of it. He's dead," Draco reported, trying to sound stoic.

"I'm sorry to hear that." His father looked pained. He and Mr. Crabbe were long-time friends, and Lucius had even stood as godfather to Vince. "Were you at least able to carry out your task for the Dark Lord?" he asked.

"Yes, but Potter's Mudblood rescued me from the Fiendfyre," Draco confessed softly. "I may owe her a life debt."

Lucius grimaced at the notion of a Malfoy so beholden to a Mudblood.

"That is not necessarily a bad thing," Narcissa said, ignoring her husband's disapproval. She grabbed Draco's sleeve, whispering urgently for his ears alone. "Keep the Granger girl safe. Not only do you owe her a life debt, but she has the knowledge to defeat the Dark Lord."

"She does?" Draco whispered back, wide-eyed. Really, he thought, he should not be surprised - Granger always had been a little know-it-all.

"Your aunt saw it in her head at the Manor, but Bella dismissed it as a fairy tale, or the first cracks in the girl's sanity," his mother said. "You and Miss Granger can work together to bring that monster to an end, so long as she trusts you enough to share what she knows."

Draco nodded obediently, even though he had no idea how to gain her trust, or how he and Granger could possibly succeed as a team if Potter had failed.

Narcissa held out her hand, with his familiar hawthorne wand. "Here, take it," she offered.

Draco practically snatched it from her grasp. "How - " he began, returning his mother's own wand that she had lent him.

"The Dark Lord asked me to check the Potter boy's body for any signs of life when he fell in the Forbidden Forest. I took the wand from his hand to conjure a mirror and realized it was yours," Narcissa explained.

"So Scarhead is dead, then?" Draco asked, hiding his disappointment.

His mother shook her blonde head. "The Boy Who Lived still is alive," she said softly, careful that none but her husband and son could hear.

Her discretion was unnecessary, as Harry Potter chose that moment to drop his Disillusionment Charm and dramatically shield the mother of the Weasel litter from certain death by the Dark Lord's wand.

"Narcissa, what did you do?" Lucius demanded in horror, as the Dark Lord and supposedly Chosen One began to circle one another, preparatory to their duel.

"I cast an Impervius on the mirror before I held it to the Potter boy's mouth, so that his breath would not fog the mirror. I lied when I told the Dark Lord he was dead," Narcissa stated proudly.

Draco saw that his father now looked more terrified than horrified. "What were you thinking, Cissy? He'll murder us all!"

"He'll do nothing if the Potter boy defeats him, and my act of mercy will keep us out of Azkaban," Narcissa rejoined. "If Tom Riddle wins, he'll murder us regardless. No Malfoy is safe while that jumped-up half-blood holds power. He resents our influence too much."

Draco, who was pessimistic about Potter's chances against the Dark Lord, even if he had once again cheated Death, was as aghast as his father. "Were you Imperiused, to lie to the Dark Lord like that?"

"I just wanted you to be safe, my dragon," his mother murmured, shaking her head.

Lucius stared hard at his wife and son. "You _were_ Imperiused, Cissy," he said finally. "The Dark Lord despises me for my failures. He views you as weak, but he bears no such animus towards you, and Draco has always served him well."

Draco knew his father was lying. Lucius, despite his many sins, would never use an Unforgivable on his beloved wife. Narcissa opened her mouth to protest, but shut it at Lucius's meaningful look. As a unit, the Malfoys turned to watch the posturing of Voldemort and Harry Potter in the center of the Great Hall. His mother was holding his father's hand so tightly that her knuckles were white, but Lucius said no word of complaint.

Draco's lips compressed as the Dark Lord casually mentioned murdering his godfather, for no other reason than to gain mastery over a wand. Everyone - or at least every pureblood - knew that wands were fickle things, and that their allegiance could transfer over something so slight as picking up a wand someone else had dropped. Professor Snape's death had been entirely gratuitous. Still, Draco thought his godfather probably was lucky to have died quickly and before the Dark Lord found out he was a traitor.

The end was almost anticlimactic, in Draco's opinion. This was no hours-long duel, as when Dumbledore defeated Grindelwald. Instead, the Dark Lord used the Killing Curse and Potter tried to disarm him with a second-year spell, making the outcome a foregone conclusion. Potter fell backwards with a thud, obviously dead. Draco wondered if he should feel something more at the death of his long-time Quidditch rival, but fear for his parents crowded out any other emotions.

The only surprise was that Potter's _Expelliarmus_ worked, and Greg Goyle briefly found himself in possession of the Dark Lord's fabled wand. However, Greg had barely closed his fingers around the Elder Wand when he was Stunned by a dark-skinned man with an earring, wearing maroon Auror robes with the Ministry's insignia torn off. In a seamless motion, the ex-Auror seized the wand from Goyle's inert hand, whirled, and shot an _Avada_ at the Dark Lord. The green light hit him squarely in the chest, staggering him, but Voldemort did not fall.

Instead, he laughed. "Do you understand now, you deluded fools? I am immortal. I have defeated Death, just as I have defeated you!"

There was a moment of oppressive silence, followed by a chorus of shrill screams and terrified shouts as many of the demoralized witches and wizards who had fought against Voldemort stampeded for the exits. The Malfoy family, however, stood motionless on the sidelines.

"The Dark Lord will be in a magnanimous mood with his victory over the Potter brat," Lucius said with remarkable composure, his grey eyes like granite as he faced the reality of his own imminent death.

"Lucius, don't do this!" Narcissa cried.

"He will not kill either of you for my treason. He will not punish you too grievously for what you did under my Imperius Curse, Cissy, I hope." Lucius spoke as though trying convince them, as well as himself, but his voice cracked with the last two words.

"You should flee," Draco urged his parents. "Leave now, go to one of the properties on the continent."

His father shook his head. "The Dark Lord would not rest until he had hunted us down in exile. You need to repudiate me, prove your loyalty lies with _him_ instead of your family."

Draco shook his head. "Father, I can't - "

" _Imperio_!" Lucius whispered, his wand concealed in his sleeve.

"You are no father of mine, to betray the Dark Lord in such a fashion!" Draco shouted, his voice carrying to several Death Eaters nearby, approaching with their wands out. "How dare you use my mother in such a fashion, forcing her to tell a lie to our Lord?" Despite the anger in his voice, Draco was experiencing a dreamy, floating feeling in his mind. _Just keep talking, son. You and your mother will be safe_.

"Draco, it was for the best," Lucius tried to explain. "It was foretold that the Potter brat would win. If that had been a true prophecy, then I could have been Minister of Magic."

The floating feeling continued, as Draco spat at his father's feet. "You disgust me!" he said with feeling, as Avery and the elder Selwyn seized his Lucius's arms, with Avery taking his wand. That broke the Imperius Curse, but his father mouthed one last command. _Go_.

"Draco!" his mother said pleadingly. The Flints, father and son, had her at wandpoint. Marcus Flint, his former Quidditch captain, gave him an apologetic look, but Draco knew he would obey the Dark Lord's commands.

"Get out of here, Malfoy!" Marcus ordered, gruffly but not unkindly. "The Dark Lord wants to see you helping with the clean-up efforts. Stunners only for the kids, if you can, but kill the adults."

His mother caught his eye, her message clear despite being unspoken. _The girl_. He had to get to Granger.

Even amidst the general panic, a few fighters for the light had kept their heads. The Auror who had tried to kill the Dark Lord was bellowing commands and using a powerful _Protego_ to clear a path for an orderly retreat. McGonagall, Flitwick and a few other of the surviving adult fighters on the Light joined him, using a combination of Patronuses and Shield Spells to try and hold the Death Eaters at bay while the students fled. Granger and the She-Weasel were fighting back-to-back, attempting to sidestep their way to that safe corridor and escape.

Draco nodded slowly. If nothing else, capturing Potter's Mudblood would enhance his standing with the Dark Lord. "I'll do my best for you, Mother," he promised.

 **A/N: Here's a big, global "thank you" that this story now has over 100 reviews and followers! I really appreciate that, especially with a dark story like this, since it is not always the easiest to read (or write). Thanks for reading along and sharing your thoughts.**


	11. Hermione Is Stunned

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

"Ginny, come on!" Hermione choked out. "We have to move!" She swiped impatiently at her eyes. The time for tears was later, when - if - they made it out of Hogwarts to the sanctuary of Shell Cottage.

She tried to pull the redhead up by the arm, but she resisted. "I l-loved him, Hermione. I can't leave him alone like this," Ginny protested.

After months of eating poorly on the run, Hermione was no match in physical strength for her athletic friend. Instead of trying to force Ginny to her feet, she grabbed her chin, making her look away from Harry. "Do you honestly want to be here to watch when they desecrate his corpse? Harry wouldn't want you to see that."

Ginny blinked at the harsh words, but then shook her heads. "No, he wouldn't," she agreed.

"We need to get to Kingsley," Hermione urged. "He's holding open an escape route with the teachers. Harry would not want you captured or killed while mourning him. He'd want you safe, safe to fight another day."

Ginny nodded, albeit reluctantly, with some of her usual fire returning to her brown eyes. "Let's go," she agreed. She gave one last, lingering glance to Harry's prone form before raising her wand. " _Evanesco_!" she cried, Vanishing the corpse.

Fighting back-to-back, the two girls attempted to sidestep their way to the narrow path to safety that Kingsley, Professors McGonagall and Flitwick, and a few of the other adults had managed to create. Unfortunately, Kingsley had been standing behind Voldemort, while Ginny and Hermione had been near Harry, so they had several meters to traverse to get to the exit route. They had made it less than halfway to their goal when they were separated in the scrum of the crowd.

"Ginny!" Hermione called out, jumping on one of the benches by the Hufflepuff table to search for the younger witch. It was a task made easy by Ginny's blazing red hair, the same hair that made all of the Weasleys natural targets. From her vantage point, Hermione could see knots of Death Eaters closing in on Ginny and the surviving sons throughout the hall, until Mrs. Weasley did one of the bravest things Hermione had ever seen.

Molly, Arthur and Percy had made it to one of the stairwells when she stopped and cast the Sonorus Charm on her throat. "I'm the one you want. I'm the one who killed that bitch Bellatrix," she gloated. "What is your master going to do to you when I escape?" she asked mockingly.

Molly then dashed down the stairs to the dungeons, followed by her husband and son, with more than a dozen Death Eaters in pursuit. Hermione realized that by drawing so many of them away, Mrs. Weasley had given her children and the other Order and D.A. members still remaining in the Great Hall a fighting chance to get out. Hermione vowed to take full advantage of that chance, and began casting a series of _Reductos_ to ruthlessly blast anyone in between her and the exit out of the way.

Dolohov jumped into her path. "Not so fast, _pchelka_." He muttered the incantation for his signature curse, and Hermione ducked away from the purple flames, her heart racing as recalled how much damage that spell had done to her at the Department of Mysteries and as she recalled the vile man's hands groping at her.

She turned on Dolohov with a snarl and screamed two words she had never thought to utter. " _Avada Kedavra_!"

He tried to dodge, but shock at her use of an Unforgivable held him in place for one fatal fraction of a second. The jet of green light from her wand struck him in the shoulder rather than the chest, but he still was instantly dead.

For the first time in her life, Hermione understood why Mudblood was the worst slur known to the wizarding world. She felt filthy inside her body, as though the magic running through her veins had been contaminated by Dark magic. She had to stop and take several deep breaths to stave off a panic attack, and in that half-minute she was loosely surrounded by a circle of wary Death Eaters.

"I've got this," Draco Malfoy said arrogantly to the other Death Eaters, shoving his way through to confront her, his wand deceptively loose in his hand. She knew he was a quick draw, that skill going hand-in-hand with his Seeker's reflexes. Hermione held her own wand more tightly.

"Granger, you're not going to be able to fight your way out of this. By the time you get through us, if you don't get yourself killed, that escape route will be gone. The shields are already wavering." His grey eyes were fixed on her with unnerving intensity. For once, Malfoy was not sneering or smirking. He was deadly serious.

Sparing a quick glance past Malfoy, Hermione saw what he said was true. Beads of sweat were running down Kingsley's bald head, while Professor McGonagall looked close to collapse. She could not see Professor Flitwick, and hoped the Charms professor had gotten away.

"Drop your wand and surrender, Granger," Malfoy urged. "I owe you a life debt, and I acknowledge that in front of my fellow wizards. I'll keep you safe. My honor as a pureblood demands it."

Hermione's eyes widened a bit. From what she knew of pureblood culture, life debts were a serious matter. She had thought Malfoy would try to weasel out of any obligation to her, either by claiming that Ron had been the one to fly him to safety or that a life debt could not be owed to a Mudblood. Then she saw the trick, and a look of disgust flashed across her face.

"You'll keep me alive, but I doubt I'd be safe. Given the conditions you would keep me in, I would probably prefer to be dead," she spat out. " _Expelliarmus_!"

It was not her first choice of spell, particularly after how it had failed Harry, but she needed Malfoy's wand and could not bring herself to kill him to acquire it. He was a bully and a prat, but that did not justify ending his life.

Hermione knew that Malfoy had become the master of the Elder Wand by disarming Professor Dumbledore last year. She had assumed Harry became the master of the wand in March at Malfoy Manor, by punching Malfoy in the face and taking his wand from his hand. But perhaps the Elder Wand would not transfer its allegiance if seized by non-magical means. Or perhaps Harry had lost the wand's allegiance sometime earlier tonight, when he lost physical possession of Malfoy's wand. Since there was a chance Malfoy remained master of the Elder Wand, Hermione was determined to take it by using one of the spells known to have worked throughout the wand's history.

Hermione realized her mistake almost as soon as Malfoy's hawthorne wand slapped into her palm. The Disarming Spell left him unarmed but also unharmed, and he was much physically stronger than she was. He slammed into her a heartbeat later, tackling her to the stone floor before she could hex him. Malfoy took the brunt of the impact, grunting in pain as his right shoulder hit the flagstones, but Hermione still had the wind knocked out of her.

While she was breathless, he rolled them so that he was on top, the full length of his body pinning hers to the floor. He held her wrists in one hand and plucked his wand from her grasp. She fought him with everything she had, thrashing underneath him, biting and scratching, and desperately trying to loosen his grip on her wrists so she could aim her wand towards him. From the cheers and jeers of the Death Eaters surrounding them, she could tell they were enjoying the show.

"Quite the hellcat, isn't she?" someone drawled enviously.

"Try that again later with no clothes on, Malfoy!" laughed a hulking Death Eater. Hermione thought he might have played Beater for Slytherin a few years back.

"You could Vanish the dirty little slag's clothes right now, Malfoy," suggested another with a leer.

"Just curse her and be done with it," a grey-haired Death Eater advised in a bored voice.

" _Imperio_!" Malfoy hissed, the tip of his wand at her temple.

The horror of the battle and the pain at the loss of her best friend faded away. Hermione smiled vacantly at the lovely, floating feeling.

" _Stop struggling - you'll only hurt yourself. That's a good girl._ " It was Malfoy's voice in her head, praising her obedience as she relaxed.

 _"Now I'm going to release your wrists. Go on, tuck your wand in your pocket. Yes, just like that, pet_."

Hermione preened under his regard. She ignored the nagging little voice telling her that this was _wrong_ , and that she needed to pull her wand and fight, just as she ignored the raucous male laughter at her sudden docility as she lay beneath Malfoy.

"Oi, look at that! She's as tame as a Crup, now. Bet she'd go to her knees and polish your knob right 'ere in the Great Hall if you asked her."

" _Ignore Jugson. He's an uncouth wanker_." Malfoy's command made her giggle, with how the drawling voice in her head sounded _exactly_ like him at his most snobbish.

" _Stand up and take my arm_." Bereft of Malfoy's warmth as he climbed off her, Hermione eagerly complied. " _Walk with me_."

It was just like the Yule Ball in fourth year, walking into the Great Hall with her hand on her escort's arm, suppressing a smile at everyone's shocked stares at seeing Hermione Granger with such a handsome wizard. Come to think of it, she had not experienced this type of mental bliss since fourth year, in Mad-Eye Moody's DADA class on Unforgivable curses.

" _That's because he wasn't the real Moody. He was a Death Eater under Polyjuice, who got his kicks cursing students. Malfoy's a Death Eater, too. He has you under the Imperius Curse right now._ " Hermione frowned slightly at this voice in her head. It was strident and shrill, like her voice when she was nagging at Harry and Ron to do their homework.

" _Harry's dead_ ," the unpleasant voice reminded her. " _Remember how he managed to fight off the Imperius Curse in DADA class? You need to do the same. It's a question of willpower. Use that Gryffindor obstinancy for something useful!"_

The Sorting Hat _had_ put her in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw based on her stubborn streak. Hermione dug deep down, far below the shallow surface of her mind that was responding to Malfoy's curse like a puppet, and found the reserves she needed.

"Ow! Fuck!" Malfoy yelled, as her elbow connected with his ribs. Hermione stumbled away from him, shaking off the vestiges of his curse and blindly casting a _Protego_ behind her.

Kingsley had just taken down his own shield charm and was running for the double doors, the last man out, covered by Professor McGonagall. Her favorite teacher saw her coming. Despite being grey-faced with exhaustion, the old witch raised her wand and cast one last Patronus. The silvery tabby cat hissed and spat its way to Hermione, swatting at the Death Eaters in its path.

"Come quickly, Miss Granger!" the Patronus urged unnecessarily in a Scottish burr. Hermione already was running full tilt.

" _Stupefy_!" she heard someone yell.

Hermione felt the Stunner hit between her shoulder blades. Then, everything went black.

 **A/N: as always, thanks for reading! Quick note on the master of the Elder Wand. Several people guessed Narcissa in their reviews and I agreed, but I've since reconsidered. For purposes of this story, I am going to leave it ambiguous for now whether the Elder Wand needs to be acquired through use of magic and/or whether it can be gifted to someone. So that leaves a few potential owners, as well as a nice little research project for Hermione!**


	12. Percy at a Crossroads

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

Percy and his parents had nearly made it out of the Great Hall when his mother suddenly stopped.

"Bill and Fleur got out, but George, Ginny and Ron are still trapped in there. Ron doesn't even have a wand!" Molly said, distressed.

"There's nothing we can do, dear. They're on the other side of the hall. We would be killed before we got to them," Arthur told her sadly.

"Nothing? Do _nothing_ when three of my children's lives are at stake? I think not!" Molly told her husband, with a tiger-like fierceness.

" _Sonorus_ ," she muttered, pointing her wand at the throat. "I'm the one you want. I'm the one who killed that bitch Bellatrix," Percy's mum shouted at the Death Eaters, loud and proud. "What is your master going to do to you when I escape?" she asked, as a mocking clincher.

Percy was appalled. His mother had just signed her own death warrant, and likely his and his father's as well. More than a quarter of the Death Eaters still fighting were now racing towards them.

"Mum, are you daft?" he asked.

She gave him a quelling look and shook her head as she hurried down the stairs to the dungeons. His dad gave him a helpless sort of shrug and ran after her.

From his vantage point on the stairway, Percy saw that Ron had used their mother's distraction and his long legs to sprint across the hall to the exit being held open by Kingsley and some of the teachers. George fought his way to Ginny and, as Percy watched, he slipped on a pair of glasses that looked like something their dotty neighbor Luna had designed. Then George threw two handful of Peruvian Darkness Powder into the air, surrounding himself and Ginny in a swirling cloud of blackness more than two meters around. The dark cloud began moving purposefully towards the exit, with the bizarre glasses apparently allowing George to see while blinding anyone else who ventured into the inky vortex.

For just a moment, Percy hesitated. His best chance of escape lay upstairs. If he cast a Cushioning Charm and Disillusioned himself, he could jump from a window with minimal risk of injury or detection, and then run like hell until he was past the Anti-Apparition wards, if they were even still functional. However, if he ran downstairs, he could help his parents hold off the Death Eaters that much longer.

A lifetime of being the responsible one, the middle child who caused no trouble and kept the younger ones in line, prevailed over the last two years, when he had distanced himself from his family. With no little reluctance, Percy went down the stone stairs.

Just as he remembered from any number of patrols as prefect and then Head Boy, the dungeons were a death trap, a labyrinth of windowless stone passageways, the inaccessible Slytherin and Hufflepuff dormitories, and any number of abandoned classrooms. With long, loping strides, he easily caught up to his parents as they slipped into one of the classrooms.

"In here, Arthur," his mother gasped. "We need to ward it at as best we can." She collapsed on one of the dusty desks, red-faced with exertion, and burst into tears. "Oh, Godric! I hope the children made it out."

Percy cleared his throat to get her attention and tamped down his resentment at once again being overlooked. "Ron made it out, and George and Ginny were together and almost at the exit when I left," he reported.

"Percy?" his father asked with typical mild-mannered befuddlement as he locked the door and began warding it.

His mother's head snapped up. "Percy Ignatius Weasley! You were _not_ supposed to follow us! We thought you had gone upstairs and escaped out of one of the first-floor windows."

"Pardon me for trying to help," Percy said stiffly, trying not to be offended at the assumption that he had once again put his own interests ahead of his family. "I know I've been a selfish prat of late, but I thought you would appreciate me putting family first."

"It's not that, Percy," Arthur said placatingly, having finished with the protective enchantments on the door. "We don't think you're selfish. Your mum and I wanted _all_ of you to get out. We came down here knowing there was no escape for us, but we never expected you to make that kind of sacrifice."

His mother looked at him tearfully. "There's no worse thing than for a parent to outlive a child. It goes against the way things should be."

"I wish there was more we could have done for you, Percy," his dad spoke with deep regret. "You were always such a good boy."

"With the three of us, we still have a chance," Percy said with feigned optimism. "There's a hidden staircase just at the end of the hall - "

"I know it," his dad interrupted, shaking his head. "It goes straight up to the Great Hall. That's a viper's nest by now."

Percy bit his lip. "What about - "

"Shhhh," his mum hissed. "They're coming."

Percy saw his father had run an Extendable Ear under the door. With Fred and George's clever invention, he could hear heavy boots tramping down the hallway, drawing ever closer. The Death Eaters were stopping at each and every door, blasting them open and casting revealing charms.

"Weasels, come out, come out wherever you are!" one of them sing-songed with a sadistic laugh, echoed by his fellows.

"How many?" Molly whispered instinctively, despite the Silencing Charm set on the classroom.

"At least a dozen," Arthur whispered back, his face set in tense lines.

"You know what you have to do," Molly told him, her firm tone at odds with her white face and trembling lips.

"I love you, Molly-Wobbles," Arthur said. "I've loved you since we were sixteen, and I'll love you into the afterlife and beyond."

"I love you, too, Arthur Weasley," Molly smiled tenderly at her husband.

Percy shifted his feet and stifled the urge to clear his throat in discomfort at being witness to such an intimate moment between his parents.

"Now, do it!" Molly ordered, in her usual brisk, no-nonsense tone.

Arthur's wand wavered, but his voice was steady. " _Avada Kedavra_!"

"Dad, what did you just do?" Percy screamed as his mother - his _mum_ \- toppled lifeless from the desk to the floor like a sack of flour. "You killed Mum!"

His father was so pale that every freckle on face stood out in stark relief, like specks of dried blood. "Your mother knew the Death Eaters would tear her apart in revenge for killing Bellatrix. She asked me to make it a quick death if we were trapped with no way out. It was the least I could do for her."

Arthur fell to his knees, caressing his dead wife's hair, the once-vibrant red faded and threaded with grey. "More than thirty years, and seven wonderful children," he mused to himself. "Six still alive, despite Voldemort and his bloodthirsty followers."

He looked up at Percy, unwontedly stern. "I know I haven't always been the best father to you, or the best provider, but I need you to do one last thing for me."

"What is it, Dad?" Percy choked out, despite knowing what the answer would be.

"Kill me," his dad said simply. "Do it when they break down the door, tell them you were with them all along."

" _Homenum Revelio_ ," said one of the Death Eaters. "They're in here!" the wizard yelled.

"Please, Percy," Arthur begged, getting to his feet. "I want to be with your mum, and I don't want to see any more of my children die."

Slowly, Percy nodded, as the pounding on the door grew louder, mixed with a cracking sound. The Death Eaters were physically battering the wood as they magically broke the wards.

"Now cast the spell at the wall first, so they'll see two Killing Curses if they check your wand," his dad said.

Percy did as suggested, thinking on two years of isolation from his family, the adolescent shame of hand-me-down clothes and secondhand books, and the numerous times his accomplishments had been overlooked because his dad was too caught up tinkering with his silly Muggle rubbish in the shed. Even though his pronunciation and wand movement were perfect, the green light merely sputtered from his wand. Percy was fairly certain that his Killing Curse would not even harm a fly.

"How did you do that to Mum?" he asked.

His dad flinched at the implicit accusation. "I didn't think about her. It never would have worked if I had." He swallowed hard. "You have to mean an Unforgivable. So I thought about the wizard who killed Fred, what your uncles Gideon and Fabian looked like after the Death Eaters got through with them, all the children I saw murdered tonight . . . . "

"I understand," Percy said. He focused on Rookwood, and Fred, and what would the Death Eaters would do to pretty Penelope Clearwater if they ever caught her. He let the hate build in him, and realized how petty his resentment against his family was in comparison.

"You can do it, Percy," his dad said, with the same warm encouragement he had provided to all of his children's endeavors over the years. "I love you, son."

"Love you too, Dad," Percy said, just before the door opened. Then he raised his wand and did what he had to do.


	13. Theo and the Tangled Web

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

Theo never even made it back into the Great Hall for the second half of what would become known as the Final Battle. Situated as he was towards the rear of the Death Eater ranks, he was an easy mark for the centaurs.

Theo knew that the arrow lodged just below the crook of his left elbow, though it hurt like a bitch, would not kill him. He was not so certain about the arrow wedged between two of the ribs on the right hand side of his body. His knowledge of anatomy was only slightly less sketchy than his knowledge of Healing charms, but he was fairly certain that the arrow had punctured a lung, if his labored breathing was any indication. Without someone like Madam Pomfrey at hand, the best Theo could do was to snap off the protruding arrow shafts, cast some numbing charms, and crawl off to the sidelines to wait for the fighting to end.

As he crouched in a rocky little copse, huddled up both from the pain and to augment his Warming Charm on a cold Scottish dawn, Theo told himself that his father must not have seen him injured. Charlus Nott had been near the front, at the Dark Lord's right hand, but surely he would have turned back if he had seen Theo fall. Even if the Dark Lord had ordered Charlus to stay at his side, to advise him during the battle, his father would have at least sent someone to tend to his wounded son and heir. Theo knew his father loved him, in his cold, dry way.

A clicking sound distracted Theo from his misery. "Father, is that you?"

It was not. It was a giant spider, an acromantula to be precise. Hagrid would have described this particular acromantula as "a young 'un," but all that Theo cared about was that it was the size of a mastiff and carnivorous. He knew that much, even though he had never taken Care of Magical Creatures, opting for Arithmancy and Ancient Runes as more rigorous and intellectual electives.

" _Diffindo_!" he cried, aiming for the leg joints as the acromantula loomed over him, pincers clacking. " _Diffindo_! _Diffindo_!" he repeated. With three of its eight legs severed, the acromantula fell onto Theo, but it was still alive and looking to feed. Theo screamed as it clamped onto his left forearm, drawn by the blood seeping from around the broken arrow or perhaps by the magic imbued in his Dark Mark.

" _Avada Kedavra_!" It was a curse Theo was surprisingly reluctant to use, especially for a Death Eater, but he did not hesitate when presented with a clear shot at the acromantula's underbelly. The creature went still and its grip on Theo's arm slackened, but he was trapped by the acromantula's dead weight on his legs. He tried to kick it off, but it was too heavy, and its paralyzingly venom was beginning to take effect.

In addition to making his limbs leaden, the acromantula's venom had hallucinatory effects, blurring Theo's vision but sharpening his hearing. After some time passed, though it could have been minutes or hours, Theo heard the battle spilling out from the Great Hall onto the grounds, with one side in a desperate retreat. With Harry Potter dead in the forest, Theo expected that the Light side would be routed, and the snatches of conversation he overheard confirmed that.

"We can't Apparate out!" a man yelled.

"I thought the wards were down?" That was a girl's voice, shrill and on the edge of panic.

"The castle wards are down, but the Death Eaters set up their own Anti-Apparition wards," a surprisingly calm voice explained. "Dark magic."

"Eez eet possible for you to break them, Bill?" asked a woman, clearly French from her accent.

"I'd need an hour or so without any distractions," the calm man answered dryly. "So the answer is no."

"The wards probably won't stop broomsticks, Bill." Theo thought that voice belonged to one of the Weasley twins. The next words confirmed it. "That's how Fred and I got away from Umbitch."

"Let's break into the broom shed, then," a woman suggested. " _Alohomora_!"

Theo heard chorus of _Accios_ , followed by the swooshing noise of the Summoned Brooms.

"The school brooms are such rubbish!" complained Ron Weasley. Theo knew the ginger's voice well enough.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Ronniekins," snapped his sister. Theo knew Draco would have had a snide comment about all Weasleys being beggars, but he could only think about how much his arm hurt.

"Not enough brooms for everyone," the calm man muttered, now with just a hint of worry. Theo was mildly surprised. There were at least thirty brooms in the shed, so a sizable number of fighters were escaping from the castle.

"Dean - you lead one group to Shell Cottage. Ginny and Ron, take another group to Auntie Muriel's," the calm man commanded. "Do we have a third safe house?"

"Indeed we do," Finnegan from Gryffindor answered in his distinctive Irish brogue. "Me family's got a hideout in Belfast. I'll take as many as you want there." Through a haze of pain, Theo made a note of that piece of intelligence.

"Alright, you lot - get going," ordered the calm man. "We'll cover you as best we can. Safe travels!"

"What about you and the rest, Bill?" asked Ginny Weasley. "We could double up."

"No, that'll slow you down too much. Go on now - some of the Death Eaters brought their own broomsticks!" Bill ordered.

"Don't worry, Gin. I've still got some tricks up my sleeve." That was the Weasel twin, sounding grim for such a prankster.

"What kinds of tricks, George?" Theo overheard Bill ask softly, once the brooms were away. "Because Kingsley can't hold that shield much longer, and they're going to be coming for us."

Theo could have cheered at those words. It was not that he bore any particular animus towards the Weasleys - that was a Malfoy feud - but if the Death Eaters were emerging from the castle, he was within minutes of rescue.

"Nothing spectacular," George admitted. "Some fireworks and a bit of Peruvian Darkness Powder."

"If we take a Death Eater with us, can we get through the wards?" a girl questioned, in a deceptively dreamy voice that Theo recognized as belonging to Loony Luna Lovegood.

"Why in the bloody hell would we want to take Death Eaters to Shell Cottage?" demanded George.

"No, Luna's idea is brilliant!" Bill enthused. "If you Side-Along with a person who has the Dark Mark, it will get you through Voldy's Anti-Apparition wards. Everyone, find a dead or wounded Death Eater."

"Zat eez disgusting, Bill," the French witch grumbled.

"Come on, Fleur. We'll go together," Bill cajoled.

From the pops of Apparition he heard, Theo realized that Loony Lovegood's mad plan actually was working. He lay as still as possible, not wanting to be Apparated away by his enemies when his father was within minutes of finding him and getting him to the infirmary.

" _Homenum Revelio_!" Luna said. "Over here, George!"

Theo cursed silently as he felt her spell swoop over him, betraying his position. Two pairs of footsteps hurried towards him, making slight scuffing sounds on the dew-damp grass. He raised his wand to defend himself, but his Stunner was far off the mark due to his venom-blurred vision.

" _Petrificus totalus_!" yelled the ginger-haired man, putting an effective end to Theo's struggles. He took the wand from Theo's hand and grabbed his right arm, jostling the snapped-off arrow shaft embedded between Theo's ribs. "Oops," he sneered at Theo, hauling him to his feet and kicking the acromantula's corpse out of the way.

"You should be more careful, George," Luna admonished, carefully taking hold of Theo's uninjured left wrist. "I think you hurt him."

George's reply was lost to the squeezing darkness of Apparition as the three of them turned awkwardly, Theo's body supported by the other two.

George dropped his grip as soon as they landed and Theo tumbled gracelessly to the ground, his fall broken slightly by Lovegood's hand on his wrist. Though his vision was still blurred, Theo could smell the sea and hear waves crashing, so he knew they were somewhere along the coast.

With a murmured word, Luna released his temporary paralysis. Theo retched on his hands and knees, disoriented and nauseated by the Side-Along Apparition, until his head was forced up by a wand under his chin. It was the same wand he had found in the rubble after being ignominiously disarmed by a Muggleborn early in the battle.

It was the Weasley twin, the one with the missing ear, and the expression on his face was as murderous as any Death Eater. "You're going to tell me exactly how you won my twin's wand, scum, and then you're going to die."


	14. Neville in Sheep's Clothing

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

During the time that Neville had been under the Lestrange brothers' Cruciactus Curse, the sky had brightened from the cold grey of pre-dawn to pale blue streaked with pink and yellow as the sun rose. Even though it seemed like his torture had gone on for an eternity, he knew it was less than an hour. Still, Neville had experienced more pain in that compressed time period than he had all year, which was saying something, given the prevailing curriculum at Hogwarts.

"Come on, Longbottom - just say yes. I promise getting the Dark Mark hurts less than a _Crucio_ ," Rodolphus cajoled.

Stubbornly, Neville clenched his jaw and shook his head.

Rodolphus gave an exaggerated sigh of annoyance and lowered his wand. "Your turn, Rabbie."

Rabastan, however, was distracted, looking skyward. "Oh, look at all those pretty birds flying away," he said, with a note of real regret.

Neville, with one cheek pressed into the dirt as he enjoyed a respite from the pain, blinked in surprise. He never would have pegged the sadistic Death Eater as one to dabble in ornithology. Looking up, he realized Rabastan was referring to birds to the colloquial sense. A squadron of a dozen fliers streaked overhead on broomsticks, the majority of them witches.

Neville recognized Gryffindor Chasers Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson and Demelza Robins flying in one Hawkshead Attacking Formation, while Ravenclaw Lisa Turpin and two witches who Chased for Hufflepuff made up a second formation. Lee Jordan, Ron Weasley, Jack Sloper and a Ravenclaw boy trailed behind them, while Ginny Weasley and Cho Chang spiraled far above, Seeking pursuers rather than a Snitch. Neville thought he had never seen a more beautiful sight, particularly when he spotted two more groups of fliers escaping to the southeast and southwest. He smiled, despite his cracked lips.

"Ah, well. A bird in hand is worth two in the bush," Rodolphus counseled his younger brother. "And we've got Longbottom here well in hand."

"I'm not sure, Roddy," Rabastan disagreed. "He's as stubborn as his father. Frank never said a word until Bella started in on that pretty wife of his."

Neville grit his teeth, trying to hide any reaction. The worst torture inflicted by the Lestrange brothers was mental, not physical or magical. Neville now knew more about his parents' last lucid hours than he had ever cared to dwell upon.

"We could bring out his grandmother," Rodolphus mused. "She's all he has left. Perhaps giving her a few _Crucios_ will put Neville in a more reasonable frame of mind."

"That stiff-necked old besom?" Rabastan snorted in contempt. "She'll break before she bends."

"Typical Gryffindor," Rodolphus shook his head. "No sense of self-preservation. Salazar only knows that if I had a son, let alone a grandson, I'd give him up to the Dark Lord in a heartbeat to spare myself that kind of pain."

"It's a good thing your line dies out with you, then," Neville sneered.

An ugly look flashed across Rodolphus's face. He kicked Neville in the bollocks with a booted foot, eliciting a cry of pain, and then hit him with a _Crucio_ so intense that Neville could not stop himself from screaming.

" _Sectumsempra_!" screamed Ginny, her voice so twisted with rage that Neville barely recognized it as she dove towards them like a hawk after a mouse.

Rodolphus dodged her curse. Ginny, undeterred, flew her broomstick straight at the Lestrange brothers, intent on scattering them. "Leave him be, you disgusting maggots!"

"Pull up, Gin!" Neville hoarsely screamed at her. He knew her rescue attempt on a worn-out school broom was doomed to failure. If nothing else, he was too weak and twitchy from sustained exposure to the Cruciactus Curse to even stay on a broomstick behind her. Ginny stubbornly shook her head, red hair steaming behind her as she accelerated.

" _Stupefy_!" cried Rodolphus, with Rabastan a beat behind.

Ginny tried to use the Wollongong Shimmy to zigzag around their Stunners, but her broom was too slow. One of the beams of light grazed her ankle, and she tumbled from her broom, unconscious, landing heavily on the turf.

"Ginny!" Neville cried out, crawling towards her. He was thwarted by Rabastan's hand on his collar, dragging him backwards, as his older brother strode over to Ginny's unnervingly still body.

"Pretty, if a bit temperamental. Reminds me a bit of Bella when she was young," Rodolphus chuckled as he waved his wand over Ginny.

"Is she your girlfriend?" Rabastan asked, leering at Ginny.

"Not my girlfriend," Neville choked out. Just a very good friend, and not someone he wanted to see tortured in his place.

"She's alive," Rodolphus pronounced. "And you're a terrible liar, Longbottom. Let's wake her up and see what she has to say, eh?"

"Oi, Goyle!" Rabastan beckoned to Greg Goyle, who had just emerged from the castle.

The large Slytherin boy shuffled over to them, his reluctance to get near the criminally insane Lestrange brothers evident in every step.

"Who's this ginger bint? Are she and Longbottom together?" Rabastan inquired, rapid-fire.

Goyle shook his head, which had always seemed to Neville to be a size or two too small for his oafish body. "That's Ginny Weasley. She was Potter's girl."

"A Weasley, eh?" Rodolphus eyed her with hot-eyed speculation. "She's likely a fecund little blood traitor, then."

"Bellatrix would never stand for it," Rabastan stated, attempting to cut off his brother's train of thought before it left the station.

"Er, she's dead," Goyle said. "Madam Lestrange, I mean."

"My wife is dead?" Rodolphus asked, pinning Goyle with his dark, mad eyes.

Goyle nodded, his Adam's apple bobbing frantically. "I'm sorry about your loss," he offered his awkward condolences.

"What a pity," Rodolphus said, shrugging off his wife's death.

"How'd she die?" Rabastan asked with avid curiosity.

"Ginny's mum killed her in a duel," replied Goyle.

Rodolphus raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Well, then, I suppose the Weasley clan owes us reparations."

"Not that they have the funds to pay us in Galleons," Rabastan noted, licking his lips as his eyes travelled down Ginny's body.

"I'll settle for repayment in kind," Rodolphus said with an evil grin. "But we'll need results with Longbottom before the Dark Lord is inclined to so reward us."

Rabastan nodded, turning back to Goyle. "Who is Longbottom dating?" he demanded.

"Er, I dunno," Goyle said stupidly.

Neville hid his surprise at the answer. Goyle was thick, but not so stupid that he did not know that Hannah Abbott was Neville's girlfriend. She had been tormented by Slytherin House for most of the year for her relationship with Neville, but loyally had refused to break up with him.

"I know who it is," someone offered in a nasally voice.

Neville turned his head a minute degree, and was not surprised to see the voice belonged to Zacharias Smith. Smith was trussed up in a line with several other Hufflepuff prisoners, including Ernie Macmillan and Justin Finch-Fletchley. Ernie gave a vicious mule kick backwards into Smith's knee, while Justin glared at him for his disloyalty.

"Shut it, Smith. Show some honor," Justin reprimanded his housemate.

With a wave of his wand, Rodolphus Silenced Justin and put a Leg-Locker Jinx on Ernie. "Now, my dear boy," he purred at Zacharias, "Is there something you wished to tell us?"

"Yes, sir," Smith the traitorous wanker nodded eagerly, to Neville's impotent rage. "Hannah Abbott is Longbottom's girlfriend."

"Abbott . . . Is she a pureblood?" Rodolphus asked, recognizing the name as one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight families.

"No, sir," Smith answered. "Hannah's a half-blood. Her father married a Muggleborn."

"Fair game, then," Rabastan smiled in predatory anticipation. "If I were to remove those uncomfortable-looking chains and escort you into the Great Hall, could you identify Miss Abbott for me?"

"Oh, absolutely!" Zacharias promised.

"Hannah's your friend. Don't do this to her," Neville pleaded.

Zacharias, now freed from his shackled compatriots, looked contemptuously at his prone form. "Like you could stop me, Longbottom," he sneered, before obediently following the Death Eater into the castle.

In that moment, Neville came to a realization. For as much as Dumbledore liked to talk about the power of love, people like Zacharias Smith - who sadly, might be in the majority - were motivated by fear above all else. He thought that Neville could not hurt him, he knew the Lestrange brothers could, and therefore he was willing to sell out a girl who had been nothing but a friend to him for all of his school years.

Lying at the feet of a cheerfully humming Rodolphus Lestrange, within an arm's length of Ginny, who was unconscious and helpless, Neville did some of the hardest thinking of his life as he waited for Rabastan to drag Hannah out of the Great Hall. Neville knew she would be tortured until she or he broke, because that was what Death Eaters did. And he could not let that happen to her, because even though Hannah had just turned eighteen and Neville was still seventeen, he was pretty sure she was the love of his life.

Besides, he was not a person to stand by and allow anyone to be tortured, if it lay within his power to stop it. In the last year, Neville had developed a strong protective streak, perhaps from being bullied so much when he was younger. After nearly two years of practice since Harry had first taught the Patronus charm to the D.A. back in fifth year, Neville's Patronus had finally acquired a corporeal form in January. It was an English sheepdog, which made Neville quietly proud. After all, he had spent the entire fall term trying to herd students to safety and hold the wolves at bay.

"Thinking how to save your girlfriend?" Rodolphus asked with a smirk. "You can't do it lying there helpless on the ground."

Neville knew that the older wizard, though certifiably insane, was correct. A single sheepdog would be torn to pieces by a pack of wolves.

"Your half-blooded doxy is going to need a protector," Rodolphus continued. "One with a Dark Mark on his arm, so . . . . " he trailed off, persuasively.

With the D.A. and Order defeated - _for now, not forever_ , Neville told himself - he had to become something more dangerous and treacherous than a sheepdog, even though that was not his nature. He remembered a favorite childhood story, one his Gran would read to him before falling asleep. _A wolf in sheep's clothing_. He could pretend to be a loyal, cowed follower, while still looking out for Hannah, Ginny, and the other captured members of Dumbledore's Army.

Neville could see Hannah now, Rabastan leading her down the stone steps that led from the castle with a bruising grip on her upper arm. She was trying her best not to look frightened, but her normally pink cheeks were pale. Smith was trailing behind them, still wandless, but no longer under any sort of restraint.

Rodolphus followed Neville's eyes, grinning at the glare he directed at the Hufflepuff. "Annoying little tosspot, isn't he? But he's smart enough to take the Mark when it's offered to him."

Hannah was standing in front of them now, shaking her head while staring at him with imploring eyes.

As important as she was to him, it was not just about her. Neville had sworn to Harry, on his magic and all he held dear, to do whatever it took to defeat Voldemort. He had killed the snake, he would happily kill Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and he had been willing to die trying. This capitulation somehow felt worse than death, even if it did leave him alive as the last hope for the Light, to succeed, Merlin willing, where the Chosen One had failed.

"Well, Longbottom, what will it be?" asked Rodolphus genially. "Last chance!"

Rabastan jabbed his wand into the hollow of Hannah's neck, forcing her chin up so she could no longer meet Neville's eyes. "I hope he refuses - then we can have some real fun with blondie here."

Slowly and painfully, Neville got to his knees, head bowed and eyes low to the ground.

"I'll do it," he gasped out. "I'll become a Death Eater."


	15. Ginny Gets Some Advice

**_May 2,_** _ **1998 - continued**_

Ginny woke up in the dark, with a parched mouth and someone holding a cool compress to her aching head. She flinched away from the touch. "Who?" she asked thickly.

It was a relief to hear Hermione's voice. "It's me. I'm so glad you're awake. What's the last thing you remember?"

Ginny struggled to a seat, leaning back against an unforgiving stone wall for support. The fog in her mind was lifting, even if it was leaving a miserable headache behind. "I tried to rescue Neville from the Lestrange brothers. I must've gotten hexed off my broom."

"I'm sorry," Hermione sighed. "I hoped you'd escaped. Did Ron make it out?" she asked.

Ginny felt a pang of guilt at the question. When they had been separated in the Great Hall and George had hustled her to safety in a cloud of Peruvian Darkness Powder, she had not thought about Hermione until it was too late, after they were already outside the castle. Ron, in those few frantic minutes before they had flown away towards Aunt Muriel's, had not asked about Hermione at all.

"He got out," she confirmed.

"Thank Merlin!" Hermione said fervently. "I was so worried for him."

"You'd do best to worry about yourself, Miss Granger," a woman commented, echoing Ginny's own thoughts.

She tried to place the voice, which was equally sarcastic and melodious, with a posh accent that made her especially conscious that her khakis were filthy from the battle and ripped at one knee from her fall. "Who's that?" she asked, aggressively, to hide her disquiet.

"You'll need to see it to believe it," Hermione replied. With a muttered word, she wandlessly conjured one of her signature bluebell flames, allowing it to dance above her outstretched palm.

Though just large enough to light a candle, the tiny blue flame provided enough illumination for Ginny to see everyone who was with them in the bare, windowless room. Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones were huddled together, staring at her with wide, tear-filled eyes. Katie Bell sat with her back to the stone wall, her injured left leg propped awkwardly in front of her and with a grimace of pain twisting her face. "Hey, Gin," she said, forcing a smile for her former teammate.

The surprise, however, was Narcissa Malfoy, sitting at a slight distance from the others. With her perfect posture and ankles crossed daintily beneath her, she had the demeanor of someone attending an al fresco tea party rather than imprisoned in a dusty old classroom. "Miss Weasley," she said, with a polite incline of her head.

"What is _she_ doing here?" Ginny asked Hermione, out of habit, since Hermione always knew everything.

"The same thing that you are, Miss Weasley. Awaiting the Dark Lord's decision on my fate as one of the spoils of this war," the blonde witch answered for herself.

Ginny felt Hermione tense up behind her at those words. "Yeah, right," the redhead snorted skeptically. "Because you know that we fought on the opposite of the war from you and your tosser of a husband."

"And your son," Hermione added with quiet bitterness. "He's the one who Stunned me in the Great Hall."

"Draco had his reasons," Narcissa said cryptically. "I hope that he is redeeming himself to the Dark Lord as we speak. Lucius and I, however, are being punished most severely for my error in judgment. I told the Dark Lord that Harry Potter was dead in the Forbidden Forest when he still was alive."

"That's a bloody huge mistake to make!" Ginny said, directing her anger onto Narcissa as the nearest convenient target. "And Harry's dead anyways, so I don't see what's got Voldemort's frilly knickers in a twist."

Narcissa flinched visibly at Ginny's use of the taboo name. "You should be more careful in how you refer to the Dark Lord. The walls may have ears, and I am certain your future husband will not tolerate such irreverence towards his Lord."

"Husband? What are you on about, you daft hag?" cried Ginny.

"You should put out that flame," Narcissa advised Hermione, entirely ignoring Ginny's outburst. "Wandless magic is quite draining, and you don't want to exhaust yourself. Besides, some confidences are easier shared in the dark."

"But then we won't be able to see your face, to tell if you're being truthful," Hermione objected.

"Miss Granger, I am a Black by birth, a Malfoy by marriage, and a Slytherin by nature. Do you really think you could tell by my expression if I am lying to you?"

Hermione conceded the point by extinguishing the blue flame, leaving the witches in darkness, cut only by the faintest glow at the bottom of the locked door that led to the torchlit corridor.

"The Dark Lord's followers, with the exception of my late sister and Alecto Carrow, are exclusively wizards," Narcissa began, stating the obvious. "Most Death Eaters, due to the stigma of the Dark Mark, time spent in Azkaban, and their own insanity, are not married. Only handful, like my Lucius, have managed to enjoy long and stable marriages despite being Marked."

Ginny swallowed hard, as Narcissa's words made her think of her own parents and their long, stable, and _happy_ marriage. She would ask Hermione later, but she doubted they still were alive.

"Families with daughters, like the Parkinsons and Greengrasses, are reluctant, if not entirely unwilling, to enter into marriage contracts with known Death Eaters. Madam Parkinson cut off all negotiations with me after Draco was Marked," Narcissa confided.

"But Pansy and Malfoy are very close," Hermione objected.

"She hangs all over him, you mean," Ginny commented. "Follows him around like a pug puppy."

"And Draco is exceedingly wealthy and comes from a prominent family, but those material advantages still were not enough to counter the Dark Mark on his arm," Narcissa noted cynically. "Most of the Dark Lord's followers are the dregs of wizarding society. No witch of quality would consider marriage to a Death Eater these days, not with their reputation for mental instability and violence, including towards their own wives and children."

"She has a gift for understatement," Hermione muttered.

Despite the gravity of their situation, Ginny giggled, a bit hysterically.

"So I expect that he will reward his most favored followers with marriage to pureblood witches," Narcissa went on. "Witches with a lesser blood status will be parceled out as concubines to other members of the inner circle."

"That's disgusting," Ginny spat out.

"That's positively medieval!" Hermione gasped.

"The Dark Lord is indeed a proponent of traditional wizarding values," Narcissa said, with a silky sort of venom in her voice. "I have witnessed as much these past two years, when he occupied my home. You, Miss Granger, are rather fortunate to be here with us. There is a Dark revel going on in the Great Hall as we speak, and those of your blood status are normally put out as entertainment for the masses."

"So if Voldy is planning on passing out witches like party favors, I'll ask again - what you doing here, Mrs. Malfoy? You're already married," Ginny said, not very nicely. She thought Narcissa might have been placed among them as a spy, to find out where the Order members and D.A. students had escaped to and report back to Voldemort, and her Weasley temper had sparked at the offhand insult to Hermione.

"I will be a widow soon, if I am not already. The Dark Lord will not allow Lucius to survive his betrayal. The only real question is how drawn-out my husband's death will be," Narcissa said bleakly.

In the darkness of the room, Ginny's sharp ears caught the faintness sniffle, the only indication as to how deeply the older witch cared for her husband.

"Madam Malfoy?" Susan Bones asked timidly. "Who are the members of the inner circle? I'm going to be more frightened of the unknown."

"What are their weak points?" Katie asked, with blunt Gryffindor practicality.

"Forewarned is forearmed? I suppose there can be no objection to me sharing what little I know." Narcissa paused, as if gathering her thoughts, before continuing. "The Dark Lord is a great believer in the power of magical numbers. He always has seven members of his inner circle," she explained. "Prior to the battle, the circle was made up of Bella and her husband, Professor Snape, the elder Nott, Dolohov, Selwyn, and Rookwood."

"Dolohov's dead," Hermione said, with grim satisfaction.

"As is Severus," Narcissa said with regret. "And my sister," she added in an afterthought. "Selwyn has two grown children and is married, happily enough, so I don't think he would take a mistress. Nott is an elderly widower with an heir and has no need to remarry. I think he is too old to even want a concubine, but . . . ."

"He could be a lecherous old goat," Ginny finished for her, to murmurs of disgust from the other girls.

"Augustus Rookwood is unmarried," Narcissa went on. "He has been useful to the Dark Lord as a spy and in his research at the Department of Mysteries. A wife with Ministry connections will enhance his career prospects and utility to the Dark Lord."

Susan gulped audibly. She had been raised by her Aunt Amelia, the head of MLE prior to her murder at Voldemort's hands, and the Bones family had held any number of Ministry positions.

"I was at Hogwarts with Augustus, Miss Bones, and consider him a friend," Narcissa offered. "He is the consummate ambitious Slytherin. Everyone was shocked at the Ministry when he was unmasked as a spy and a Death Eater. He can be quite charming and even kind to those who have value to achieving his ends."

"So you scratch his back and he'll scratch yours?" Ginny asked.

"Crude but accurate," agreed Narcissa. Then she sighed heavily. "The Lestranges are an old family and among his most devoted supporters. With all the time they spent in Azkaban, neither brother has fathered an heir. The Dark Lord _will_ give Rodolphus a pureblood witch as a new wife, even though he and his brother drove Bella into madness. She and I were once quite close, and very much alike, before her marriage."

Ginny felt a trickle of fear down her spine at the contrast between the two sisters, recalling Bellatrix's insane recklessness when she dueled, as though she welcomed death. "So scratching Lestrange's back won't work?" she joked, weakly.

"Try scratching his eyes out instead," Narcissa advised acidly. "Rodolphus is an unmitigated sadist, with Rabastan as his willing helper. If the Dark Lord marries me to either of them, I'll kill myself at the first opportunity and try to take either or both of them with me."

Next to Ginny, Hermione drew in a sharp breath as Narcissa's magic swirled around them at the vehemence of her words. The room was deathly silent.

"I cannot predict entirely who will replace the three deceased members of the inner circle." Once again, Narcissa's voice was cool and collected. "Edward Avery, Amycus Carrow, Brutus Flint, and Albert Runcorn are possibilities, as they have all served the Dark Lord well since his return. I do not think the Dark Lord will invite any member of the younger generation to join the inner circle, but it will be Draco if he does."

"We know Draco and Professor Carrow," said Hannah Abbott, polite as only a Hufflepuff could be, "but could you please tell us about the others, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Of course, my dear. Avery's family is old but poor, so he needs a rich wife," Narcissa began.

"Well, count me out," muttered Ginny. "Everyone knows that we Weasleys don't have two sickles to rub together."

"How can you joke about this?" Susan asked, her voice high-pitched and panicky in the dark.

Ginny shrugged, even though no one could see it. "It's either laugh or cry. Growing up with six older brothers, I learned to laugh."

Narcissa delicately cleared her throat. "Like Rookwood, Runcorn is a political animal who is looking for a wife in order to advance in his Ministry career. However, he was Marked only within the last year after he became a widower. His first wife, who was of dubious blood status, apparently fell off a broomstick," she added with patent skepticism.

"Flint is a former Quidditch player and his wife controls the purse strings. If he requests a witch, it would be for his son, but the Dark Lord is unlikely to grant that request. He prefers to keep the younger generation hungry," Narcissa concluded. "As I said, I doubt the Dark Lord will elevate Draco to his inner circle, but will grant him Miss Granger as a prize instead. Our family is not much in favor these days, and there is a certain subtle insult in giving a Muggleborn witch to a Malfoy that will appeal to the Dark Lord's sense of humor."

"Hilarious," Hermione said dryly. "Forgive me if I fail to find this at all amusing."

Unexpectedly, Narcissa laughed with real humor. "With that attitude, you and my son will get along swimmingly."

"Yes, I'm sure it will be all rainbows and unicorns once the Stockholm Syndrome kicks in," Hermione rejoined.

Ginny had never heard of that syndrome, and neither had Narcissa, who promptly questioned Hermione about it.

"Stockholm Syndrome? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with that particular Muggle disease," she said. "Is it contagious, Miss Granger?"

Hermione began to laugh. Like Ginny before, her laughter had a hysterical edge that made Ginny reach out and hug her in the darkness.

"Voldemort would welcome an epidemic of Stockholm Syndrome," Hermione answered, once her bitter laughter subsided. "It refers to a state of mind when prisoners begin to trust and feel fondness for their captors and support their demented ideals."

Narcissa was silent for a moment. "I should like to see you have that kind of fondness and support for Draco. If you trust him, it only would be natural for you work together towards the same goal."

"It's never going to happen," Hermione stated.

"What a pity," Narcissa said, coolly. "And yet they call you the brightest witch of your age."

A thump on the door cut off any response from Hermione. The door swung open, and Amycus Carrow, Marcus Flint, and four Death Eaters Ginny did not recognize filed into the makeshift holding cell.

"Alright, ladies - and Mudblood," he greeted the blinking, frightened witches. "As much as I've enjoyed listening in on your hen party, your presence is _desired_ upstairs." The Dark Arts professor grabbed Ginny by the wrist and hauled her to feet. "Let's go."


	16. Draco Is Denied

**_May 2, 1998 - continued_**

In the Great Hall at Hogwarts, Draco knelt before what had been the headmaster's chair. For most of his time as a student, it had been occupied by Dumbledore, with his twinkling eyes and deceptively nonsensical welcoming speeches. In the past year, Professor Snape had taken the chair with reluctance, glowering while seated as though the wooden seat gave him boils on his arse. Now, the Dark Lord sat in it as though it were a throne.

"You may rise, Draco," he hissed. "I did not see you for much of the battle, but I do hope you have a good reason for that?"

"Yes, my lord," he spoke with well-feigned humility. "I carried out your instructions to the letter. I retrieved the diadem and guarded it with my life until you arrived in triumph at Hogwarts."

"Give it to me," Voldemort hissed in command.

Careful to conceal his instinctive revulsion for the diadem, Draco withdrew it from the mokeskin pouch around his neck, making a bit of a production out of it. It was not often that he had the Dark Lord's undivided, favorable attention in front of an audience of his fellow Death Eaters. He turned the diadem so the sapphire caught the evening sunlight streaming into the Great Hall, making the gem shimmer with blue fire. Using both hands, he presented the diadem to Voldemort, who was regarding it with covetous eyes.

"You were wise to send me to fetch it. Potter was there in the Room of Hidden Things, searching for it, but I got there first," Draco murmured, wanting to underscore the importance of his task before pleading for his mother's life and freedom.

His father, however, was a lost cause. Draco had seen him dragged from the hall towards the dungeons, beaten and bloody, by Walden Macnair and Thorfinn Rowle. Both were brutes who hated the Malfoy family. Even worse was that the Dark Lord had chosen Charlus Nott as Lucius's interrogator. Draco knew that Theo's cold, reptilian father was capable of ordering any depravity and standing by with unblinking eyes while it was carried out. Draco would not wager a Knut on his father's prospects of surviving that interrogation.

"Did Potter or his friends see you take the diadem?" questioned the Dark Lord, his red eyes gleaming with sudden intensity.

Draco shook his head. "No, my lord. I heard Potter before he, the Weasel, or the Mudblood saw me. I made a copy of the diadem and placed it where I had found the real one. Potter seized it, and he and his friends thought it was genuine. They were pleased when the fake diadem was destroyed by Fiendfyre."

Unexpectedly, Voldemort threw back his head and howled with laughter. "No wonder Potter was so confident he could defeat me. Stupid boy!"

Once his laughter subsided, the Dark Lord regarded Draco with atypical benevolence. "You have done well, and I shall reward you for it. As of now, you are too young and untried to take a place in my inner circle, but continue as you are and will be at my right hand in a few short years."

"Thank you, my lord," Draco bobbed his head in gratitude.

"For now, I should like you to take responsibility for those Hogwarts students who I am Marking tonight," Voldemort said, raising his voice so he could be heard throughout the hall. "They will be assigned to different squads for their missions, but you are their leader while they remain at school."

"I am honored. Thank you, my lord," Draco repeated. He took a deep breath. "As my reward, I humbly beseech you to spare my mother. She is innocent, a victim of my father's treachery." Draco kept his eyes trained on the Dark Lord's shoes, not daring to meet his eyes as he lied.

"Narcissa Malfoy, innocent?" Voldemort lingered mockingly over the last word. "I suspect that the last time your mother was innocent, in any sense of the word, was the night before she wed your traitor of a father."

Other Death Eaters in vicinity laughed, as Draco's cheeks heated with an angry and embarrassed flush. "My mother was acting as a dutiful wife. Please do not hold her responsible for my father's betrayal."

"I shan't," Voldemort promised. "Your mother is weak, but I shall not punish her for obeying her husband as a witch ought."

"So you will release her to the Manor?" Draco asked, suppressing any undue hope, along with the thought that Voldemort was a fool. Narcissa Malfoy was anything but weak. Draco knew his mother's strength had held their family together since the Dark Lord's return.

"No, no," Voldemort shook his head with a smile. "Your mother will be residing at Nott Court, in the custody of her new husband. I can trust Charlus not to betray me and to take whatever steps are necessary to secure his wife's obedience."

"Of course, my lord." Draco swallowed hard. Everyone knew that Theo had arrived at Hogwarts able to see thestrals because his father had beaten his mother to death before his six-year-old son's eyes.

"I intend to give you a pet as your reward." The Dark Lord smiled gleefully.

"A pet?" Draco echoed in surprise. He already had an eagle owl for his familiar, and he really had no desire for a small, fluffy creature to care for. Not that he could even imagine the Dark Lord doling out Pygmy Puffs to his Death Eaters.

"Potter's Mudblood," Voldemort explained. His red eyes moved to the far end of the hall, where a half-dozen captive witches were being dragged from the dungeons by an equal number of Death Eaters. "Do you want her?"

Draco's eyes followed and stopped on his mother, not deigning to struggle against Brutus Flint's grip on her upper arm. Granger had been slung over Travers' back like a sack of grain and still was kicking and clawing in a futile effort to gain her freedom. In all honesty, Draco would prefer to spare his mother remarriage to a brutal husband over adopting the Gryffindor hellcat. However, as a Slytherin, he would take what he could get and use it to his fullest advantage.

"I do want her, my lord." Draco's grey eyes met his master's red ones, showing him how his body had responded to Granger squirming underneath him in the Great Hall. His robes had hidden the resulting bulge in his trousers from others, but from the way her brown eyes had widened in shock and fright, there was no doubt she had felt his erection pressed against her. This was an acceptable, if base, reason to want a Mudblood, unlike his mother's treasonous suggestion that Granger could help him bring down the Dark Lord.

Voldemort smirked, a truly terrifying expression on his bone-white, lipless face. "You may have her," he granted, "once I have marked our new recruits. Business before pleasure, young Malfoy."

Draco forced a smile in response. "Indeed, my lord, you are most gracious." His mother's cryptic instruction to protect Granger and gain her trust was at the forefront of his mind. Given the Dark Lord's twisted notions of pleasure and expectations for the treatment of a Muggleborn pet, Draco knew it would require every bit of cunning he possessed to satisfy his master without hurting Granger unduly or destroying any possibility that she would ever trust him.

"Now, sit next to me watch the initiation," Voldemort said, patting the seat of the chair next to him in an invitation that Draco could not refuse.

Draco sat, his grey eyes intent as he observed the initiates being led towards the dais, accompanied by the Death Eaters who were sponsoring them. Blaise Zabini came first, looking somewhat worse for wear and held between the elder and younger Selwyn like a prisoner.

"Ah, Mr. Zabini," the Dark Lord sibilantly greeted Draco's friend and dorm mate. "I hear you were caught in a witch's bed after fleeing the battle like a coward. Is that true?"

"I was evacuated with most of the other students," Blaise said, his face stony. "My mother and I are dual citizens of wizarding Britain and Italy, and we are neutral in this war."

"Normally, I kill deserters, but I shall forgive you just this once," Voldemort said, blithely ignoring Blaise's response. "In the future, I expect you to stay and fight. Now, are you willing to take the Dark Mark?"

Blaise gave Draco one desperate glance before nodding, his lips tightly compressed.

"I couldn't hear you," Voldemort sing-songed, holding his hand to where the shell of his ear should be.

The Selwyn son punched Blaise viciously in the stomach. "Answer our Lord when he speaks to you, cousin!" Draco recalled that Blaise's mum, for all that she had fled Britain and pretended to be an Italian contessa by birth rather than marriage, really was the illegitimate daughter of a Selwyn and a gypsy witch.

"Yes, my lord," Blaise gasped out.

"Do you sponsor him to join the ranks of the Death Eaters?" asked Voldemort.

"Yes, my lord," the Selwyns said in unison.

"Get the prisoner," Voldemort directed. Two Death Eaters pulled Kevin Entwhistle to the dais, his Ravenclaw uniform tattered and his face bloody. "Kill him!" Voldemort ordered.

Blaise gave Draco another desperate look. Silently, the blond willed his friend to obey. Entwhistle was a harmless, quiet boy whose only crime was to have Muggles for parents, but it was kill or be killed. The Selwyns had their wands trained on Blaise in clear threat.

" _Avada Kedavra_!" Blaise cried. His voice was shaky but the spell was effective. As Entwhistle's corpse hit the ground, the elder Selwyn presented Blaise's left arm to Voldemort for branding, while the younger Selwyn held his right arm in a restraining grip. Blaise howled in pain and tears ran down his cheeks as the Dark Lord's wand tip seared his flesh. Draco breathed in through his mouth surreptitiously as the smell of charred meat entered his nostrils.

"Take him away and robe him," Voldemort told the Selwyns. "Do not bring him back into my sight until he is presentable."

With a nod and a bow, they dragged Blaise away between them.

"Who is next?" Voldemort demanded.

To Draco's surprise, Percy Weasley stepped forward. Draco had assumed the former Head Boy was there to be executed, his death the price of admission for someone else to join the Dark Lord's ranks.

"Should I express my condolences or congratulations on the recent deaths of your parents, Percy?" the Dark Lord asked maliciously.

"Your condolences are unnecessary, my lord," Percy said politely. "I had been estranged from my parents and siblings for nearly two years, ever since my promotion at the Ministry."

"I couldn't ask for a better or more diligent assistant," Pius Thicknesse enthused. "We need brains as well as brawn to take over and run the Ministry. Weasley is an excellent administrator - you can trust _him_ to keep the Hogwarts Express running on time."

"Do you vouch for him?" Voldemort asked.

The Minister nodded, but Rookwood was the one to speak. "We do, my lord. I saw him murder his father. His mother was already dead, and there was a second Killing Curse on Percy's wand."

Draco looked at the Weasley with carefully concealed distaste. As much as he hated the entire family of impoverished gingers, he never would have imagined one of them would turn so viciously on his own.

The Dark Lord looked deeply into Percy's eyes before nodding in satisfaction. "Give me your left arm," he instructed. "The murder you have done is enough to earn you a place in my ranks."

Percy flinched at the touch of the red-hot wand tip and clenched his jaw like a true Gryffindor, taking the Dark Mark like a penance. Afterwards, Thicknesse led him away, with a friendly clap on his shoulder.

Zacharias Smith took three tries to kill a glaring, straight-backed Justin Finch-Fletchley, and then pissed himself from the pain of getting Marked. The Lestrange brothers laughed like hyenas at his pathetic showing. "Ever since Pettigrew offed himself, we've been needing a jester!" Rabastan chortled.

Draco was less amused, since Smith was one of the new Death Eaters he was now responsible for whipping into shape.

"We've got another one for you, my lord," Rodolphus said, shoving Neville Longbottom to his knees before the Dark Lord's chair.

"He agreed?" Voldemort inquired.

"Indeed he did, on pain of death," Rodolphus confirmed. "Not his own, of course."

" _Legilemens_ ," Voldemort said, brutally prying into the Gryffindor's mind as Draco watched with unexpected empathy. When Neville collapsed, the Dark Lord sat back, twirling his wand in thought.

"You are not the first to join me under duress, Longbottom. I think you fail to grasp what the Dark Mark entails, but you will learn." Voldemort smiled cruelly. "Bring the young lion cub forward," he instructed the Snatchers.

Draco watched as Dennis Creevey was dragged before the dais. The slightly-built Muggleborn was struggling for all he was worth, kicking and cursing.

"Neville, this filth is going to die tonight," Voldemort stated. "I leave it to you whether he dies quickly and cleanly at your hands or whether I give him to the Snatchers. We don't have enough women to go around, but they'll make do with a boy."

Without even looking at the Dark Lord, Neville stepped forward. Draco thought he might have whispered something to Creevey, but could not be certain. Certainly Longbottom's Killing Curse was loud and clear.

With a cruel smile, Voldemort grabbed Neville's arm and pressed his wand into the tender flesh between wrist and elbow. His smile widened as Neville thrashed in agony but stubbornly refused to scream. He did not remove his wand until Longbottom had passed out from the pain, and then gestured to the Lestrange brothers to remove him and the still-sniffling Smith.

Greg was at the end of the line with his hulking father and the even larger Mr. Crabbe, all of them looking uneasy. Draco realized why when Voldemort spoke to Greg as he bowed before him.

"The Goyle family has always been loyal," he mused, "to me as well as to the Malfoys. I need to be certain you put me first."

"Yes, my lord," Greg said, his voice muffled as he kept his forehead pressed to the floor.

The Dark Lord hit him with a Stinging Hex. "Stand up, boy!"

With a yelp, Greg stood, his bovine brown eyes caught in Voldemort's snake-like gaze. "I'll be loyal to you, sir, even before Draco," he gasped.

"Actions speak louder than words . . . or thoughts." The Dark Lord spoke sternly to Greg, then gestured to Charlus Nott, who had emerged from the dungeons. "Bring up Lucius!" he called.

Draco's mother wailed as Lucius was carried past her, his feet scuffing along the ground as he was supported between Rowle and Macnair. Narcissa's high-pitched, wordless keening cut off abruptly when the elder Flint Silenced her with his wand.

Draco's stomach lurched when he saw the reason for her distress. From across the Great Hall, he had assumed his father's face was bloody from a beating, but up close, he could see that his father's eyes had been gouged out.

Rowle shoved Lucius to his knees before Voldemort.

"Do you have any last words, Lucius, before young Mr. Goyle ends your pathetic life?" asked the Dark Lord.

Draco braced himself, knowing his mother's life depended upon what his father might have confessed under torture.

"I'm afraid not," Charlus Nott answered for Lucius. "Walden got a bit carried away and cut out his tongue." He spoke with a detached sort of distaste.

"No matter," the Dark Lord waved it off. "Greg, you may dispose of him."

Mr. Crabbe grunted a word of encouragement and Greg stepped forward, not looking in Draco's direction. " _Av-avada Kedavra_ ," he stuttered. Still, a sickly green light shot from his wand to hit Lucius in the chest.

With his eyes still downcast, Greg shoved up his sleeve and presented his arm to the Dark Lord. His father patted him on the back as he moaned from between clenched teeth at the pain of being branded by Voldemort's wand. "Good job, son," Draco heard him say as he and Mr. Crabbe led Greg away. None of the three even glanced at Draco, or at his father's bloodied corpse.

The Dark Lord brushed his hands together, with the satisfied air of a man who had completely some mildly unpleasant chore.

"Now, let the Revel begin!" he announced, with a lipless smile and a clap of his hands.


	17. Percy the Pimp

**Trigger: In addition to having the highest body count of anything I have ever written, this story also will have incidents of sexual assault, including in this chapter and the next.**

 ** _May 2, 1998 - continued_**

Percy returned to the Great Hall just as Voldemort announced the commencement of the Dark Revel.

At the Dark Lord's signal, flasks of Firewhiskey and joints of roasted meat appeared on the House tables. Some Snatchers herded in a group of women and girls. Percy vaguely recognized a few as Muggleborn witches by their torn robes, but they were strangers to him. To his tremendous relief, Penelope Clearwater was not among them.

He took a seat at one of the former House tables - Gryffindor, ironically enough - with Rookwood and Thicknesse sliding in across from him. The Minister, who was a greedy fellow, grabbed a plate and piled it high with slices of rare beef, while Rookwood poured out glasses of Firewhiskey for the three of them.

"To Percy Weasley, the most promising of the new recruits," Fred's killer toasted him with a genuine smile.

"Hear, hear," Thicknesse said warmly. "You took the Mark remarkably well, m'boy. Something to be said for that Gryffindor stiff upper lip."

Percy smiled thinly at his boss, taking a small sip of his drink. "Thank you, sir."

For whatever reason, he _had_ recovered more easily than his fellow initiates. His left arm still throbbed in pain, even though Rookwood had cast a Numbing Charm, but Percy had not really needed the vial of Pepper-Up Potion Thicknesse had pressed on him. As soon as the steam ceased pouring from his ears, Percy had donned his new Death Eater robes and walked back into the Great Hall with his sponsors.

Looking around the Hall, he saw Blaise Zabini slumped between his cousins at the Slytherin table, drinking Firewhiskey as though it were pumpkin juice. Percy fully expected to see Zabini slumped under the table, dead drunk, within the hour. At the other end of the snakes' table, Greg Goyle sat quietly between two large, heavy-jowled men, looking pale and refusing any food.

Neville Longbottom had just re-entered the hall, barely able to walk and almost wholly supported by Zacharias Smith, who appeared irritated at being used as a pack mule. They were escorted by the Lestrange brothers, their teeth flashing white in their dark beards as they laughed, delighted by the corpses placed around the Great Hall as macabre party decorations.

Percy had deliberately sat himself with his back to where his parents and Fred had been strung up, but he still felt like their sightless eyes were watching him. His seat also put Ginny and Hermione, who were seated on a bench under guard, directly in his line of sight. He was not sure what he could do to help them, but he would at least watch over them.

Both girls looked shell-shocked by what they were witnessing on sidelines of the Dark Revel, as Death Eaters and Snatchers disported themselves in the Great Hall. Some were eating, with table manners that made those of Percy's youngest brother seem civilized, but most had foregone any food in favor of the Firewhiskey and the unfortunate Muggle and Muggleborn females provided for their sick entertainment. All of them were now sobbing or screaming from the attentions of one or more Dark wizards.

Charlus Nott approached and tapped Rookwood on the shoulder. "The Dark Lord wishes to see you now, Augustus."

"Thank you, Charlus. Are you quite well?" Rookwood asked.

As Percy looked more closely at the older man, he could see lines of strain, as well as age, etched around his mouth and eyes.

"I have been better. My son is missing and presumed dead, and the Dark Lord's response is to saddle me with a wife and tell me I have the hammer and tongs to make a new heir," Nott said sourly. "Not at my age, I daresay."

"I'm sorry about your son," Rookwood said sincerely.

"Bright boy, lots of potential," Thicknesse added mournfully.

Percy tried to look appropriately sympathetic, though he really did not care about the fate of one Death Eater's child compared to his own parents and brother, not to mention his baby sister.

"Do you know why the Dark Lord wishes to see me? Nothing bad, I hope," Rookwood said with studied casualness.

"He's going to tell you which of the teenage witches over there he wants you to marry in a wandpoint wedding," Charlus advised. "I leave it to you whether that is a bad thing."

"There's nothing bad about that! I wouldn't object to one of those pretty young witches in my bed, though my wife might have something to say about it!" Thicknesse guffawed.

Rookwood merely shrugged and walked away in response to the Dark Lord's summons.

"Speaking of which, my wife isn't here now, so if you'll excuse me . . . ." With a wink, the Minister pushed back from the table and made his way over to a knot of men surrounding a brunette Muggleborn wearing nothing but her Hufflepuff tie. Percy looked away in disgust as Thicknesse shoved the Hufflepuff girl down on her already bruised knees and began undoing his trousers. His eyes met the flat, reptilian gaze of Charlus Nott, now seated across from him.

" _Panem et circenses_ ," Nott said, with a contemptuous nod towards the Minister of Magic and other men similarly engaged around the Great Hall. "Salazar knows I would never couple with one of those Muggle animals."

"Yes, well, war brings out the animal in all men, including wizards," Percy said in his most priggish voice.

Nott gave him a sharp look. "You'll become accustomed to it after a while. Try not to express your distaste so visibly in the interim, though," the solicitor recommended.

Percy frowned and refilled his glass with water instead of alcohol, knowing he had to keep a clear head. He had dealt with Nott on several occasions in his capacity as a Wizengamot solicitor and found him to be intelligent and a man of rigid integrity, but he could not forget that the man was also a Death Eater, the most senior of Voldemort's lieutenants. "It is difficult for me not to, when my sister is one of the unfortunate witches present here," he said carefully. "No matter how much I deplore her politics and choice of boyfriends, Ginny still is my baby sister."

"Ginevra is a pureblood. The Dark Lord will have Pius - once he's done rutting in the mud - marry her off to her new husband, who will take her back to his home. You needn't worry that she will be defiled publicly," Nott offered in cold comfort.

 _Just raped in private by some Dark wizard more than twice her age_ , Percy thought in anguish.

As though she could sense his guilt, Ginny turned her head sharply and looked straight at him. " _Blood traitor!_ " she mouthed, from under a Silencing Charm.

Percy flinched. Ginny's words cut deep. He was indifferent to being insulted as a blood traitor because his family liked Muggleborns, but his sister believed he had betrayed his family, his own blood. At Ginny's nudge, Hermione gave him a searching look, scanning his robes with a puzzled expression that hardened in sudden understanding. Percy had always liked Hermione, viewing her as a good influence on his volatile younger siblings. Her disappointment was nearly as hard to bear as Ginny's anger.

"What about the other witches over there, those who aren't purebloods? What happens to them?" Percy asked Charlus, hiding his concern for Hermione as mere idle curiosity. He was grateful that she had been so far exempted from the sexual violence surrounding them, but he could only hope to Godric that the curly-haired witch was not being reserved for a worse fate.

"I don't know about the half-bloods. He promised Potter's Mudblood to Draco Malfoy, my soon-to-be stepson." Charlus did not seem pleased at either prospect.

Percy was appalled. When he was at Hogwarts, Malfoy had been a terror - disrespectful towards the prefects and Head Boy and Girl and bullying towards younger and weaker students. He had been particularly vindictive towards Hermione as a Muggleborn, to the point of publicly wishing that she would be killed by the heir of Slytherin - none other than his current master.

By popular report, Malfoy had only gotten worse over the years, letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts and trying to murder Dumbledore. Since they now had a snake and skull tattoo on their arms in common, Percy knew Malfoy had graduated from attempted to actual murder. Glancing over at the blond wizard, Percy saw that he was seated next to Voldemort, eating tiny bites of rare beef with impeccable table manners and apparent indifference to his own father's mutilated corpse, laying on the floor in front of the high table.

"Wait, you are going to marry Mrs. Malfoy?" Percy asked in shock.

"So I am informed," Charlus said in a dry voice.

"Do you know who Ginny is to marry?"

"It is not for me to say," Charlus shook his head, giving Percy a disturbingly sympathetic look. Then Rodolphus Lestrange sauntered over and paused in front of Ginny, running one finger down her cheek, and Percy knew.

"No!" he cried. "Anyone but him!"

"The Dark Lord has made up his mind," Charlus stated. "It would not behoove you to attempt to change it."

"She's too young for this, for a husband like that," Percy croaked out in impotent protest.

Charlus snorted. "Pureblood witches have traditionally married young. She's certainly old enough to get pregnant and bear an heir, which is all the Dark Lord and the Lestrange brothers will care about."

"She's underage," Percy insisted. "Ginny's only sixteen. Legally, she is too young to be married."

Charlus gave him a shrewd look from beneath his greying eyebrows. "You are partially correct. She is too young to marry without the consent of a parent or guardian. An older brother, for instance, such as yourself."

Percy felt a tiny flicker of hope. "Could I withhold my consent?"

"Certainly, if you wished to be killed out of hand so that the Dark Lord can give her away _in loco parentis_ ," Nott agreed with deceptive mildness. "The more sensible course would be to negotiate with your putative brother-in-law and extract some concessions in exchange for your consent. A promise not to use Unforgivables on your sister, for instance."

"Lestrange would _Crucio_ her?" Percy asked in disbelief. He could not imagine using that curse to torture his worst enemy, let alone a wife.

"Certainly. Why wouldn't he?" Nott shrugged. "I've heard that's what drove Bellatrix 'round the twist. The Lestrange brothers are not known for their self-control. Shall I introduce you to Rodolphus?" he asked.

Percy was under no illusions that Charlus Nott was helping him out of the good of his heart, if the man even had one. There were some Death Eater inner circle politics in play, and he would owe the other wizard for his help. Beyond that, Ginny would never forgive him for his complicity in her marriage to Rodolphus Lestrange. Still, he nodded, seeing no other option. "I would appreciate that."

"A word of friendly advice, if I may?" Nott said, nodding respectfully to the Dark Lord as they crossed the Great Hall. Percy aped the motion, surprised by the poisonous glare Malfoy shot in his direction. He had never done anything to him, other than put him in detention and take away points from Slytherin, all punishments sanctioned by the headmaster and warranted by the blond Slytherin's misbehavior.

"You will want to make sure that any guarantees of protection you obtain for your sister from Rodolphus extend to Rabastan as well," Nott advised.

Percy felt nauseous at the implications. "Do I need to include any other wizards?"

"No, the Lestrange brothers like to keep it all in the family," Charlus reassured him, if such could be considered a reassurance. "Ah, Rodolphus! Have you met Percy Weasley? He would like a word."

The dark, bearded wizard left off his lustful perusal of Ginny to frown at Percy. "We haven't met, but I'm a bit busy getting acquainted with the lovely Ginevra."

"I'm not sure if my sister has told you, but she prefers to go by Ginny," Percy offered with a calculated smile. Since Ginny was Silenced, he knew she had not told Rodolphus anything. "She's a tomboy and the best Chaser at Hogwarts, so for her birthday in August, she'll prefer the latest racing broom over jewelry as a coming of age present."

The last few words caught Lestrange's attention. "She's not seventeen until August?"

"That's correct," Percy said. "Her birthday is the 11th of August."

"Then I do need to have a word with you," Rodolphus agreed with annoyance, stepping away to take the conversation out of Ginny's earshot. "What's your price?" he demanded bluntly.

Charlus Nott was put out by the utter lack of subtlety in the negotiations that followed, but Percy succeeded in wringing certain key concessions from Rodolphus regarding Ginny's treatment. By binding magical oath, both Lestrange brothers would agree to refrain from using two of the three Unforgivable Curses in her, though Percy reluctantly consented to the Imperius Curse, which Rodolphus leeringly claimed would make certain things easier for Ginny. He further promised that neither he nor his brother would inflict any injury on Ginny, by means magical or physical, that they could not heal. Percy obtained permission for periodic visits to check on his sister, though he was limited to twice a month and would have to go to the Lestrange family's ancestral keep in Cornwall rather than meeting Ginny in Diagon Alley or some other neutral spot.

"You'll want a safe conduct for those visits, Percy," Charlus interjected.

Percy quickly added that term, which, from the snarl on Rodolphus's face, was more than advisable.

"Don't forget to make a provision for pin money for your sister," Charlus added helpfully.

"She won't have any place to spend it!" Rodolphus protested. "And I'm not allowing any wife of mine to have her own vault!"

"It's customary," Nott insisted. "Send it to Percy's vault. He'll hold it for her."

"Oh, so that's how it is," Rodolphus said, with a knowing smile. "One hundred Galleons a month and no more, Weasley. Are we done?"

Percy nodded, not sure he could stand to negotiate any further with Lestrange.

"I always knew the Weasleys were poor, but I never realized you were so impoverished as to whore out your own sister," Malfoy drawled from behind him.

"That's not how it is," Percy sputtered. He earned quite a good salary at the Ministry, and the money was for Ginny. But Malfoy had already turned his back, focused on Hermione. Percy could see her looking up at the blond wizard with a wary expression as he stood before her, smirking.

"Granger," he purred, "do you remember the time in fifth year when you caught me in a broom closet with Tracy Davis?"

Malfoy's voice was light, almost flirtatious, like the finger twined around one of Hermione's chestnut curls. With a subtle flick of his wand, he removed the _Silencio_ that had kept Hermione uncharacteristically quiet.

"Answer me," he hissed, with a vicious yank on her curl.

"I remember," Hermione answered, wincing as he pulled her hair. "I caught the two of you snogging in a broom closet."

"And you gave us detentions, like the perfect little prefect you are. Snape had me brewing contraceptive potions for two weeks, even though I never even got into Tracy's knickers - thanks to you," complained Malfoy.

"I think you owe me for that missed shag in a broom closet, Granger," he continued. He grabbed her by the arm, dragging her to her feet.

Hermione shook her head frantically, eyes wide. "No, Malfoy. Please don't do this."

Percy cleared his throat, but stepped aside at Nott's warning look, recognizing his limitations.

"Come on, Granger. Time for your seven minutes in heaven," Malfoy said loudly, playing to his audience as he marched the protesting witch across the Great Hall.

"Or hell," he added with a smirk, to catcalls and shouts of laughter, shutting the door to the broom closet firmly behind them.


	18. Hermione and the Perils of Broom Closets

**A/N: A dub-con trigger warning applies to this chapter.**

 ** _May 3, 1998_**

"Malfoy, please don't do this. You don't have to do this," Hermione pleaded as he marched her across the Great Hall, trying to get through to the boy she had gone to school with for six years. Harry had told her that Malfoy had lowered his wand on the Astronomy Tower, unable to kill a defenseless old man. Hermione knew he was a prejudiced prat, to be sure, but Malfoy was not a killer - or a rapist.

"You say I don't have to? Maybe I want to," he replied, with a disquieting gleam in his grey eyes, tightening his grip on her upper arm to the point of pain. Hermione no longer felt so confident in her assessment of Malfoy's character, as he joked with other Death Eaters about what he was going to do to her.

She was quaking with fear when they reached the broom closet. With a muttered word, he opened the door with a bit of wandless magic and shoved her inside. Hermione caught herself against the wall with both hands, realizing her error only after Malfoy had her stuck in place. Frantically, she tried to pull her palms free, but his Sticking Charm was a strong one.

Malfoy physically locked the door and warded it as well. "That should keep the nosy buggers out for at least five minutes. Plenty of time for a quick shag," he announced, his hands on her waist at the button of her denims.

"Please, Malfoy! Please don't do this to me!" Hermione begged, as he began kissing his way up her neck.

"Shhhh, Granger. You won't like it, but I promise it won't be _that_ bad." Even though he was behind her, she could hear the smirk in his voice. "Just . . . play along," he added, so softly she could not be sure she heard him correctly or even heard him at all.

But then his nimble fingers popped the button of her denims and pulled down her zip, and Hermione was too terrified to pay heed to anything Malfoy said. She kicked backwards and bucked up against him in a futile attempt to make him stop, but got nothing for her efforts beyond a dark chuckle as he shoved her denims and knickers down to her ankles.

"I knew you'd be a feisty one. Save it for later, pet, once I'm inside you."

With that comment, Hermione utterly lost it. She kicked, she screamed, she writhed, she locked her legs together, but nothing worked to stop him. Malfoy dodged her feet, ignored her screams, laughed when she twisted against him, and shoved one booted foot between her ankles. He kicked the sensitive knob of bone on the inside of her ankle hard enough to make her yelp and then swept her legs apart, muttering another Sticking Charm to hold them in place.

To her shame, Hermione began to cry. Even when she had been tortured at Malfoy Manor, bleeding from Bellatrix's knife and with Fenrir Greyback sharing his vile plans for her, she had not been this vulnerable. Malfoy had her naked from the waist down, immobilized with her legs splayed wide. Unable to fight back physically, Hermione went after him with words. "You seem awfully good at this, Malfoy, restraining a witch so she can't resist. Is that skill part of Death Eater basic training? Or was your entire reputation as the Slytherin sex god built on rape?" she asked bitingly.

In the quiet broom closet, her only answer was rustling of cloth as he undid his robe and trousers. Hermione switched tactics, trying to play on his blood-based bigotry. "Malfoy, you don't want me. I'm a filthy Muggleborn, remember? You really don't want to sully your pureblood self like this."

"Believe me, Mudblood, when I say that you are not my first choice. But I'll make do with what I have," Malfoy answered, cold and angry. "You're intelligent enough to know that this isn't about sex. It's about power. Your precious Potter lost, and this is the Dark Lord's way of ramming that home to you."

"Fuck you, Malfoy!" she said defiantly.

"I think you've got that the wrong way around, pet," he taunted.

Hermione braced herself for Malfoy's forced penetration, but the object she felt prodding between her legs was not his penis. "You stabbed me!" she yelped, more in surprise than hurt. The blade with which he had cut her was so sharp that she had not immediately felt the shallow cut high up on the inside of her thigh.

Malfoy's fingers pinched her hip in warning. "It's just a cock, Granger. Bigger than most, but you'll get used to it. Guess Potty and the Weasel were too busy buggering each other to bother getting into your virginal knickers. It's going to hurt your first time."

"Malfoy, what are you doing?" Hermione questioned. Contrary to her expectations, he was not assaulting her. Contrary to his expectations, she was not a virgin. "You're not - "

"Shut up, Granger!" he growled, directly in her ear. "Unless you're begging or calling my name, I don't want to hear another fucking word from your mouth!"

Hermione tensed as Malfoy nipped her earlobe in sharp emphasis. "Walls . . . ears," he whispered in soft warning. "Do you understand?" he demanded, his voice now loud and harsh.

"I understand," she said meekly. _The walls have ears_. She relaxed fractionally. While she did not know what game Malfoy was playing, he did not seem to have any taste for rape.

He slapped his hand against his leg, the loud noise startling her. "Then stop struggling and hold still, for fuck's sake!"

Hermione did, standing frozen in place. Malfoy was standing so close that she could feel the warmth of his body against her back, but he was very careful not to touch her. Still, she was mortified by what he was doing _right_ behind her. Logically, she knew that teenage boys masturbated - a lot - and she had even accidentally walked in on Harry once or twice during their months on the run, living as they were in close quarters in a tent. But this was Malfoy, groaning loudly as he stroked himself, which brought her humiliation to an entirely different level.

"Salazar's rod, your quim is so fucking tight!" he exclaimed. "But you're not even the tiniest bit wet," he complained, casting a lubricating charm, presumably on his hand, because Hermione felt nothing.

A hysterical giggle bubbled up in her throat. Malfoy sounded so convincing, even though she knew he had no way judging her tightness or dryness from several inches outside her body. Then the reality of her situation hit her hard, and giggles morphed into gulping sobs as Hermione began to hyperventilate.

"Shut up, Granger," Malfoy hushed her, the harsh words almost comforting. "Nearly there."

His breath was hot against her neck as he panted, approaching his climax. "I'm so close . . . Buggering fuck!" Malfoy yelled in aggravation as the door to the broom closet swung open. With a hasty step forward, his body was flush with hers, angling her slightly away from the doorway. Now she could feel his arousal between her legs, thick and hard.

"Sorry," Malfoy apologized with the barest whisper of sound, nearly drowned out by the raucous crowd. He snaked his hand between her legs to rub himself as he thrust his hips forward and back between her legs. Hermione knew that to the watching Death Eaters, it looked as though Malfoy were taking her brutally from behind. She looked away, preferring to see the cobwebbed corner of the broom closet to their jeering and lustful faces.

She cried out in pain when Malfoy bit the exposed side of her neck, sucking hard enough to leave a love bite that would be livid for days unless he healed it for her. Hermione had no illusions about getting access to a wand anytime soon. Three more thrusts and Malfoy abruptly shoved her forward as he came with a grunt, eliciting a cry of disgust from Hermione as hot, sticky semen splattered onto her lower back and buttocks.

"Fuck, yeah," Malfoy muttered in satisfaction. He pulled her knickers and denims back up, leaving the pants unfastened and low on her hips but ensuring she was decently covered. Hermione then heard the sound of his trouser zipper as he straightened his clothing, tucking himself in. She still refused to turn her head and look, even when he rounded on the two snickering Death Eaters closest to the door.

"Fucking voyeurs," Malfoy said with disgust, hitting both with Stinging Hexes in quick succession. "Get your own Mudblood to shag and stop perving on mine, you arseholes."

"Draco," the Dark Lord said, his cold, clear voice stopping the incipient fight in its tracks. "Did the Mudblood please you?"

"She's a good fuck," Malfoy answered crudely. "I'll keep her."

"Then complete the spell," Voldemort ordered with a hiss.

Malfoy's wand tickled as the tip circled and swirled on the small of Hermione's back. He began to recite a Dark spell that was still somehow familiar to her. " _Obligatio pareo mala ab invito_ . . . "

From the phrases she caught, Hermione inferred this was a spell to bind an unwilling woman. That did not explain the familiarity - she never would have learnt such a spell at Hogwarts.

Realization dawned on her just as Malfoy jabbed the point of his wand into the base of her spine. White-hot pain and Dark magic radiated throughout her body, up to her skull and down to her toes and out through the tips of her fingers. Hermione's back arched and she tasted blood as she down bit on her lip in a futile effort to keep from screaming. She had heard a variation of the spell earlier that night, spoken by Voldemort when he had Marked Neville and the other new Death Eaters.

Draco had just given her the feminine version of the Dark Mark.

 **A/N: I've seen this story rec'd on a couple of tumblr blogs, and just wanted to offer a quick thank you - it's very much appreciated! Along the same lines, may I suggest To Wear a Dragon's Skin, by creativelymundane? There's a link under my follows. It's a very good, dark Dramione.**


	19. Neville at the Revel

**A/N: This is the last chapter of the victory revel, so trigger warnings very much apply.**

 ** _May 3, 1998, continued_**

Neville's knuckles whitened as he clutched the smooth wooden edge of the table, trying to find something innocuous to focus on, something other than Hermione and Malfoy in the broom closet. One of the Death Eaters had run an Extendable Ear under the door and cast a Sonorous Charm on it, so Neville and everyone else could hear what was going on, down to the sinister sound of Malfoy unzipping his trousers.

Throughout the school year, Malfoy had given Neville a wide berth, loudly proclaiming that he was too busy on missions for the Dark Lord to worry about the antics of mere schoolchildren. Whatever his motives, the blond Death Eater - unlike the Carrows - had been disinterested in finding and punishing members of Dumbledore's Army, even though Malfoy undoubtedly knew who they were. Neville had dared to hope that Malfoy would not treat Hermione too poorly, that he would rely on Slytherin cunning rather than brute force. Now, Neville realized he was a fool, and that hope under Voldemort's rule was as scarce and valuable a commodity as phoenix tears.

Many of the listening Death Eaters cheered when Hermione cried out from Malfoy's initial thrust, chortling at his callous dismissal of her pain and the loss of her virginity. Neville flinched and wished he could cover his ears, like a small child refusing to listen to whatever he did not wish to hear. However, Rabastan eyed him sternly, tapping his wand in a clear threat. Neville, of course, was wandless. The Lestrange brothers had confiscated his wand and even they were not insane enough to give it back to him.

Neville could not avoid an overwhelming feeling of guilt, one that spiked at the sound of a hard slap from inside the broom closet, followed by Hermione's hysterical sobs and Malfoy's crude commentary. Hermione was one of his oldest friends, the girl who had ever so helpfully assisted in his search for Trevor the toad on the very first day of school. But Neville knew he could only protect one witch from his fellow Death Eaters, and he had to put Hannah first.

"Aye, that's the way to treat a filthy Mudblood bitch! Slap 'er around a bit, then fuck her so hard she can't walk straight!" crowed a Death Eater Neville did not know. He made a mental note of the man's face and how he would like to rearrange it.

"Got it!" triumphantly yelled a different Death Eater, this one standing with a friend right outside the door to the broom closet. The door swung open as they broke through the wards and lock. "Let's see what the Mudblood's hiding under her robes!"

"Buggering fuck!" Malfoy swore in annoyance at the interruption. Still, he was not about to let an audience interfere with his sexual pleasure. Neville could only be thankful that the ferret rapist had left his robes on, even if he had stripped Hermione from the waist down, so he did not have to see Malfoy's pale white arse as he pistoned in and out of her unwilling body.

Seeing her assault was worse than merely overhearing it. When Malfoy shoved Hermione forward with his climax, Neville saw the blood smeared on the inside of her upper thigh. He had seen a lot of blood spilt over the past night and day, but this unleashed something within him. During the battle, he had not killed a single person, just Voldemort's snake. Well, maybe the mandrakes he had flung off the castle battlements had caused the death of some Death Eaters with their fatal cries, but he was a step removed. With Malfoy, though, Neville felt like taking his wand - or, better yet, his bare hands - and ending his life. He _had_ to kill Voldemort, but he _wanted_ to kill Malfoy.

As Malfoy led Hermione from the Great Hall, her pants still unbuttoned and loose at her waist to show the black tattoo stark on the small of her back, Neville smiled at a sudden realization. It was a smile that none of his Gryffindor friends would have recognized, an evil expression that would not look amiss on the face of either Lestrange brother. He had Harry's Invisibility Cloak safely tied around his waist, under his jumper. With the Cloak to help him, Neville could readily ambush Malfoy in one of Hogwarts' desolate corridors and make him pay for what he had done.

"Now that Potter's Mudblood has been disposed of, to the most _loyal_ Malfoy," Voldemort said mockingly, "I have two half-bloods to bestow upon my followers before I give away the Pureblood witches in marriage."

Death Eaters all around the Great Hall perked up at that announcement. A current of cruel excitement ran around the room, making the small hairs on the back of Neville's neck rise with instinctive unease. Off to the side, Neville saw Susan Bones, shaking with fear as a grey-haired Death Eater held her hand. Narcissa, seated next to a much older wizard, looked politely disinterested, as though she were attending a rather dull charity event. Ginny was in a Full Body-Bind, allowing Rodolphus to run his foul hands through her hair and all over her body, while Hannah and Katie Bell were huddled together in shared fear.

"Bring the brunette first," Voldemort ordered, with a sly glance in Neville's direction.

Marcus Flint and one of his Slytherin Quiddith teammates pulled Katie before the High Table, even as she tried to resist with a broken leg. Neville saw that someone had crudely splinted and bandaged it, but she still needed a Healer.

"State your name, blood status, and House," Voldemort commanded.

Katie stubbornly clamped her lips together.

"Katie Bell, half-blood, Gryffindor," Flint replied for her.

"I did not ask you to answer, Marcus," Voldemort said warningly.

Flint paled and began to stammer apologies, as Voldemort looked intently into Katie's eyes, raping her mind with his Legilemency. "Miss Bell is a Quidditch player, a reserve Chaser for the Harpies. She was a member of Dumbledore's Army and joined the Order of the Phoenix immediately after her graduation." Predictably, boos and hisses echoed in the hall. "Tonight, she hexed Avery, both Flints, Lucius Malfoy, Rowle, and Yaxley. Right now, due to the savage half-Muggle influence of her family, she is wishing for a knife to castrate any wizard who touches her. That includes you, Marcus and Warrington."

Laughter rang out in the hall as the sloth-like Warrington dropped Katie's arm and took a step away from her. Flint, in contrast, tightened his grip.

"I'll take her," he said stoutly.

The Dark Lord raised a hairless eyebrow. "What have you done, in the year since I marked you, to deserve such a prize?"

"Uh, I . . . ," Flint said stupidly, flummoxed by trying to think on his feet. Neville remembered that the former Slytherin captain was thicker than a concussed troll, one of few students in the history of Hogwarts who had ever been held back a year.

Flint's father, who was dark and burly like his son but with better teeth, answered for him. "Marcus has served you well, my lord. He fought at the Battle of the Seven Potters, where his pursuit of Mad-Eye Moody helped you kill the Auror. Marcus and I also kidnapped the wandmaker Ollivander."

"Hmmm, not bad for a junior Death Eater," Voldemort conceded.

"But it is nothing compared to my twenty years of service," Edward Avery interjected smoothly. "I should like the girl."

"Twenty years?" the Dark Lord said skeptically. "More like seven. You were very quick to renounce me, Avery, when you believed that I was finished."

"I have served you loyally since your return, my lord," the Death Eater protested. "I even went to Azkaban for you last year."

"Deservedly so, after your fiasco at the Department of Mysteries. Still, you do outrank Marcus. Anyone else?" asked the Dark Lord. "Amycus?"

"Not my type," Carrow shook his head. "I like blondes with big jugs. I'll make a bid for this one," he said, with a leer in Hannah's direction.

"Guess Katie's all mine," Avery smirked.

Marcus Flint looked pleadingly at his father, who shook his head slightly but then stepped forward with clear reluctance. "You marked me two years before Avery, my lord. Unlike him, I did not claim the Imperius Curse back in 1981, and served three years in Azkaban merely for having the Dark Mark."

"You do have the better claim to the half-blood Bell, Brutus," said Voldemort. "But if you want her, you have to take her."

"Yes, my lord," the elder Flint agreed. "Hold her down," he directed his son, who readily obeyed, pushing Katie face-down onto the High Table. Neville averted his eyes from the brutally efficient rape that followed, though it was clear the crowd was disappointed by Katie's stubborn refusal to scream and how quickly Brutus finished.

"Do you know the spell?" Voldemort inquired, as soon as the man had fastened his trousers.

Brutus nodded before proceeding to cast it. Katie did scream then, when the tip of his wand seared the tender flesh on the inside of her thigh. Marcus Flint dug his fingers into her shoulders. "Katie, stop thrashing about, if you want to walk on that leg again," he warned.

"She'll do for now," his father grunted. "Let's go, girlie," he said, as Katie's screams subsided into choking sobs. With Hogwarts' Anti-Apparition wards down, he picked her up and turned on the spot, disappearing with a _crack_. Marcus nodded to the Dark Lord and followed suit a moment later.

"Bring the other forward, Amycus," Voldemort requested.

Neville narrowed his eyes as Amycus Carrow dragged Hannah forward and shoved her to her knees. "This 'ere is Hannah Abbott. She's a half-blood - her father actually married his Mudblood whore, if you can believe it, after he put her in the pudding club. Our Hannah was the result." Amycus yanked one of her blonde braids hard, making her cry out.

"She's a Hufflepuff, but a sneaky slag for all that," the Dark Arts professor continued. "Her and Longbottom having been keeping me and Alecto busy all year, I tell you. I've got a score to settle with this little bitch. If you give 'er to me, she'll be spending lots o' time like this."

"How will Alecto feel about that?" the Dark Lord asked slyly.

A shadow crossed Amycus's doughy face. "The mandrakes got her," he answered. "She's dead."

Neville slowly got to his feet. "My lord," he said, the words like acid on his tongue, "I would like for Hannah to remain under my protection." Traditionally, wealthy pureblood wizards kept a half-blood or Muggleborn mistress on the side. Voldemort would be more receptive to that spin on Neville's relationship with Hannah than a declaration that Hannah was his girlfriend and he loved her.

The Dark Lord laughed in his face. "You became a Death Eater - unwillingly, I should add - mere hours ago. You'll have to get in line for Miss Abbott's favors, and there are a few dozen Death Eaters ahead of you."

Neville gulped at that rebuke and all it implied. "But Rodolphus told me that I could protect her if I took the Dark Mark!" he protested.

"Rodolphus often lies," Voldemort commented. "How foolish of you to believe him."

The older Lestrange brother left off nuzzling Ginny's neck to smirk at Neville, who impotently clenched his fists in rage.

"My lord," Avery pushed his way to the front of the crowd. "I have a claim to the girl, as well. I was the one who killed her mother last year."

Hannah looked horrified. "You bastard!" she screamed at him.

"It not fair if Avery gets the mum and daughter both," Amycus argued. "Besides, if she's at Hogwarts with me, it'll give Longbottom a good reason to toe the line."

Voldemort considered, then waved a spidery white hand in Carrow's direction. "You may have her, Amycus."

"Thank you, my lord," Carrow said, even as he pulled Hannah up from her knees and flung her down on the table. " _Divesto_ ," he said, with an anticipatory smile.

"No!" Neville cried, lunging forward to stop him.

" _Immobulus_ ," Rabastan said in a bored tone, bringing Neville crashing to the ground as his body froze up. Leaving him immobilized, Rabastan hefted him to his feet and propped up him against the table, cruelly giving him an excellent vantage point.

Amycus had Hannah naked and spread out on the table, several Death Eaters jostling for a better view. With an evil grin in Neville's direction, he shoved three fingers roughly inside her, making her scream. "It's true what Longbottom said," he reported. "She's been fucked before." He seemed vaguely disappointed, but then grinned. "But probably not in the arse. I'll save that for later."

"You motherfucker!" Neville screamed, as the Death Eater forced himself on Hannah, making her cry.

"It's not your mum I'm fucking, Longbottom," Amycus taunted. "It's your girlfriend I've got beneath me. She's nice and tight, too. And look at how I'm making her titties bounce. I'm going to mark her right here," he crowed, roughly grabbing Hannah's left breast.

"Hannah!" Neville cried out to her, but she had her head turned away, not wanting him to see her tears. "I'll kill you for this, Carrow!" he swore.

The Death Eater laughed and continued thrusting away. Neville, however, was deadly serious. Malfoy, Carrow, and then Voldemort - they were all on his list. He clenched his jaw and looked down at the scarred wooden tabletop, plotting his first murder.


	20. Hermione's Magical Tattoo

**_May 3, 1998, continued_**

Hermione followed Malfoy in seething silence as he led her by the wrist through the maze that was Hogwarts' dungeons, past the stretch of blank wall that hid the entrance to the Slytherin common room, to an unmarked door one corridor over and down a narrow passageway.

"What's this, another broom closet?" she spat at the blond as he used his wand to unlock the door.

He looked at her coldly and gestured for her to precede him. "These were Professor Snape's quarters, but the Dark Lord gifted them to me."

With a muttered word from Malfoy, candles throughout the room lit up, the golden flames revealing a surprising cosy sitting room lined with bookshelves. Uncharacteristically, Hermione did not spare the books more than a glance, instead taking advantage of Malfoy's momentary distraction to swing around and punch him in the face.

It was not nearly as satisfying as hitting him back in third year. From the whip-quick manner in which he turned his jaw away, easily absorbing the blow, it seemed Malfoy had been expecting something of that sort from her. And instead of running away squealing, like he had at thirteen, Malfoy stood his ground and eyed her with a dark expression. Hermione fully expected him to hit her back.

Instead, he absently rubbed his jaw. "Don't hit me again, Granger," he growled.

Of course she ignored him, this time aiming for his nose. Except that her fist stopped in mid-air inches away from Malfoy's ferret face, and she literally could not bring it any closer.

"What did you do to me, Malfoy?" she demanded, trying to sound assertive instead of panicked.

"Sit down, Granger," he said wearily, crossing to the sideboard and pouring himself a drink, which he tossed back with practiced ease.

Again, she felt a physical compulsion to do as he ordered, even though the last thing she wanted was to sit on the small couch next to Malfoy. If nothing else, her lower back was aching so much that the idea of pressing it against a leather cushion sounded like a recipe for agony. Instead, she perched uneasily against Professor Snape's desk.

Unexpectedly, Malfoy grinned at her. "I never thought I'd say this, but thank Merlin you're such a stubborn bint."

"Did you put me under the Imperius Curse again?" she asked. The floating feeling of bliss and total loss of free will that made that curse an Unforgivable were absent, so Hermione was unsurprised when Malfoy shook his head.

"Is this something to do with the Dark Mark you put on my back?" she demanded.

"I didn't put a Dark Mark on your back," Malfoy denied. He refilled his glass and poured out a second, bringing both over to the low table in front of the small couch. After seating himself on one end, he patted the other invitingly. "Come and sit, Granger. Let's try to discuss this like civilized people."

Once more, Hermione felt - and fought - a tug to obey what was a command, albeit politely phrased. She remained standing by the desk.

Malfoy rolled his eyes at her. "Scared, little lion?" he mocked. "I promise I won't bite."

Hermione reached up to touch the livid bite mark Malfoy had left on her neck. "Pardon me if I have trouble believing your promises."

To her surprise, Malfoy looked vaguely ashamed. "I'm sorry about that. I had to make it look real," he muttered. "I promise I won't bite you again. Now, will you _please_ sit down and let me explain?"

This time, perhaps because Malfoy had asked instead of ordered, there was no compulsion to do as he said. For that reason, and because he had used the magic word, Hermione took a seat on the far end of the sofa. Wordlessly, she accepted the glass of alcohol he handed her, holding it between her hands without drinking.

"I didn't put the Dark Mark on your back," Malfoy repeated. "Only the Dark Lord is permitted to use that spell, and he would never Mark a Muggleborn witch."

"Don't lie," Hermione snapped. "I _felt_ you brand me." There still was a throbbing, persistent pain in her lower back. She reached around to rub at it, seeking some relief. Without being asked, Malfoy flicked his wand and performed a numbing charm.

"Thanks," she acknowledged, before continuing. "The spell you used on me was virtually identical."

"C'mon, Granger," Malfoy scoffed. "You're a competent witch. You know that even the tiniest mispronunciation can cause a completely different magical effect."

"Like the wizard Baruffio, who said 's' instead of 'f' and found himself on the floor with a buffalo on his chest," Hermione parroted from a long-ago Charms class. She hoped Professor Flitwick had survived the battle.

"My grandfather Abraxas was there at the cocktail party when Baruffio cocked up his spell. Said it was the highlight of the social season," Malfoy grinned. His eyes darted to the untouched liquor in her glass. "Drink your cognac, Granger. It was a birthday gift to Snape from my father, so I assure you it's excellent."

Hermione took a small slip, pleasantly surprised at the smoothness. She was even more surprised that Malfoy was chatting with her politely, even pleasantly. She had always assumed that he could not manage two sentences without insulting her hair, her parentage, or her friends. "It's very nice," she conceded. "But you're not going to be able to distract me from getting answers about what you did to me."

"Alright, Granger," Malfoy sighed. "I'll tell you. But don't bite my head off and try not to interrupt with your incessant questions. This isn't Transfiguration class."

"Fine, Malfoy," she said, stiffly.

"So . . . there are two main differences between the spell I used on you and the spell that creates the Dark Mark," he began.

Hermione narrowed her eye at him. His obvious discomfort with what she already knew was a Dark binding spell was not reassuring. "Obviously, you used feminine forms. _Mala_ instead of _malus_ , for example," she guessed.

He shook his blond head. "That actually doesn't matter. If that was the only difference, you'd be a Death Eater like dear departed Auntie Bella, with a snake and skull branded on your arm. What matters most is that your brand was placed _ab invito_." Malfoy stopped and looked at her, grey eyes seeking her understanding.

"Without my consent? Of course it was!" Hermione said sharply. "But Neville and your friends Blaise and Goyle didn't seem all that willing to get the Dark Mark. Even Zacharias Smith was upset."

"Agreed, but they all managed to _Avada_ someone to earn their Dark Marks, even that berk Smith. The Killing Curse wouldn't have worked if they hadn't meant it, so it was voluntary on some level. But you . . . you had something done to you." He broke off and swallowed hard, clearly uncomfortable with the nature of what he had done.

"Yes, Malfoy, I do recall you humping my leg like a poorly-trained dog," Hermione said, not mincing words. "And I need a shower, after you decided to finish your wank all over my backside." She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

"Sorry," Malfoy muttered. Hermione thought two apologies from him in one night might be a personal record for the blond wizard. For someone so quick with his words, he was being surprisingly inarticulate. "But you know I could have done much worse, right?"

His grey eyes met hers, looking pleading rather than defiant. Hermione gave him the smallest of nods. "It doesn't make it right, though."

"Yeah, I know that." He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the fine blond strands. "The spell that I used on you . . . It's a slave brand," Malfoy blurted out.

"Yes, I worked that out on my own," Hermione said, rolling her eyes at him. "Rather like the one on your arm."

Malfoy glanced down at his left arm, where the Dark Mark was concealed by his long sleeve. "Yours is worse," he said.

"What, does it say I'm now 'Property of Draco Malfoy?'" Hermione asked, taking refuge in sarcasm.

"It might as well," Malfoy snorted. "Do you want to see it?"

"Yes," Hermione said, curiosity getting the best of her.

Malfoy conjured two mirrors, giving one to her and holding the other so the reflective surface was trained on her back. Hermione pulled her jumper up a few inches and tugged the waistband her pants low on her hips, twisting herself and the mirror to catch a glimpse of what Malfoy had branded onto the small of her back.

It was surprisingly tasteful design, a divided circle with a single rune in each quadrant. Hermione's mouth tightened, however, as she translated them, reading backwards to compensate for seeing them in a mirror.

"You really did mark me as your property," she hissed. "Bad faith and pure blood? You used the runes for your family's name and disgusting philosophy!"

"Yes, that's what anyone who looks at your body will see," Malfoy said evenly.

"Oh, and you got the grammar wrong, as well," Hermione sniped. "How could you have possibly gotten an OWL in Ancient Runes without learning that you need to be consistent in your placement of adjectives to nouns? They can go before _or_ after, but not willy-nilly!" She knew it was irrational to be incensed about a grammatical error in an unwanted magical tattoo on her body, but she could not help herself.

"I bollocksed up the grammar on purpose," Malfoy smirked. "Look at how the runes read in the mirror."

Hermione did so. "'Bad blood, pure faith,'" she translated. "What does that mean?" she questioned, puzzled.

"I think it should be obvious, since you'll only ever see them as a reflection," Malfoy said, raising an eyebrow. "But honestly, Granger, you should be more concerned about what this tattoo does than what it looks like."

"Fine, Malfoy," she snapped. "Tell me what it does, and how it differs from your Dark Mark." Hermione looked pointedly at his covered left arm.

"What, I should show you mine because you've shown me yours?" Malfoy grinned annoyingly, eyes lingering on her exposed back.

With a huff, Hermione pulled her jumper down. "Don't be such a git!"

Malfoy's smile faded as he pushed up his sleeve, revealing the blackened snake and skull on his left forearm. Looking at his arm rather than her, he began a reluctant explanation. "When I took the Dark Mark, I agreed to follow orders, like a soldier to a general. The Dark Lord can summon me and give me a mission to carry out. I can choose to obey him, or I can fail him and be punished."

From the bleak look in his eyes, Hermione could tell the Dark Lord's punishments were dreadful.

"Every time I obey him, it strengthens his hold over me. That's how the spell that creates the Dark Mark works," Malfoy concluded.

Hermione nodded in understanding. "That would explain why the older Death Eaters are so much more fanatical."

"Yes, unless they are intelligent enough to figure out how the Mark works and delegate to underlings," Malfoy agreed. "That's how my father managed to maintain so much of his sanity and free will."

Hermione nodded again, refraining from any comment on the late Lucius Malfoy. "So the difference is that I obey you?" she asked instead. "How is that worse?"

Malfoy shook his head. "It's the nature of the obedience you owe me, as well as how I can reinforce your obedience. It's a lot more personal."

"It's because your spell used _pareo_ ," she realized. "Complete submission, not just following orders." Hermione took a deep breath, trying to keep their discussion on an academic level. If she thought too hard about the slave brand on her back, a tramp stamp that would make her want to satisfy Malfoy's every whim, she was going to break down and cry. "Can you remove it? Can someone at the Ministry remove it? A spell like that can't possibly be legal!"

"It's been outlawed since early in the eighteenth century, but . . . ," Malfoy shrugged his shoulders. "Families keep old grimoires laying around. You can't remove the brand on your back," he answered her question. "It's as permanent as my Dark Mark."

Hermione narrowed her eyes in thought. "Those faded when Harry defeated Voldemort."

"I forbid you to kill me," Malfoy said quickly, always with an eye towards his own self-preservation. "Or to take any steps to connive at my death."

"Don't give me that look, Granger," he defended himself in response to her glare. "If I die, the Dark Lord will just give you away to another Death Eater, one who won't be as reluctant as I am to reinforce the spell."

"How does one reinforce the spell?" Hermione asked, knowing the answer but feeling malicious enough to make him say it.

"Through repeated sexual assault. Rape works best," Malfoy replied, with brutal bluntness. "My control over you is weaker because I _didn't_ do that to you. And I won't do that to you. I swear I won't lay a finger on you again without your consent."

"So that's why I can fight the compulsion to obey you," Hermione said thoughtfully.

"Yes, you can fight it, just like you've been doing, just like you did with my Imperius Curse," Malfoy agreed.

"Why?" Hermione asked bluntly. "We're enemies. You're a Death Eater - rape and torture is what your side does. Why didn't you - ?"

Malfoy leaned over, close enough on the small couch that Hermione could see the blue in his grey eyes and smell the cognac on his breath. "I don't need or want a fuck toy, Granger."

"What do you need, Malfoy?" she asked, suddenly slightly breathless. Her heart was pounding, with fear and something else, at his proximity.

"I need - and I want you to be - my co-conspirator."


	21. Draco's Reluctant Co-Conspirator

**_May 3, 1998, continued_**

"A co-conspirator?" Granger echoed, looking searchingly into his eyes. Then she turned away, shoulders slumped in defeat. "Your side won. Harry's dead. The Order is scattered. You have me as a sodding _slave_ , Malfoy. You don't need me as a co-conspirator."

Draco grabbed her wrist, feeling her quick flinch as he made her look at him again. He was not sure whether it was from pain or fear, since the only expression he could read in her brown eyes was defiance. "Granger, I forbid you to repeat or divulge what I am about to tell you to anyone, unless I grant you express permission." His command should protect her - protect them both - from any who tried to subject her to Legilemency or garden-variety interrogation. "Do you understand?"

She dipped her chin in a nod. "I understand, _master."_

"Don't call me that!" he snapped, not appreciating her sarcasm. "My _family_ lost, Granger. We wanted Potter to defeat the Dark Lord. You were there in the Great Hall when they dragged my dad in. You saw what they did to him."

"Yes," she acknowledged. "No one should be treated like that." _Not even Lucius Malfoy_ went unspoken.

"My mum lied to the Dark Lord, told him Potter was dead in the Forbidden Forest. Even though everyone thinks she was under the Imperius Curse, she's been married off to Nott by now as her punishment. That old bastard is the one who oversaw my father's torture," Draco said angrily.

Granger's eyes widened at the horridness of that.

"He'll kill her," he went on relentlessly. "Just like he killed his first wife. Theo never talked about it, but everyone knew that he could see thestrals from the day he arrived at Hogwarts because he saw Charlus beat his mum to death."

"I'm sorry," she offered inadequately.

"It's not your fault, Granger," Draco said stoically. He shook his head, blond fringe falling towards his eyes. "If you'd seen the way that snake-faced freak treated my family - blaming my father because he couldn't get some stupid prophecy the Dark Lord was obsessed with, having my mum flogged after your lot escaped from the Manor, threatening to give me to Greyback . . . ," Draco broke off, breathing hard. "It should be fucking obvious why I want you to help me bring down the Dark Lord."

"If you wanted to see your master defeated, you should have done something beforehand," Granger said bitterly, her sympathy for him apparently having reached its limit.

"Why do you think my mum lied to the Dark Lord?" Draco demanded furiously. "Why do you think I pretended not to recognize Potter when he got himself captured and brought to my house? Why do you think I balked at killing Dumbledore?"

"It's too late, Malfoy," Granger said bleakly. "Harry's dead. That prophecy Voldemort was obsessed with - "

"Don't say his name!" Draco ordered. "We'll both be punished if anyone else hears you!"

Granger glared at him. "Fine, Malfoy!" she huffed. "That prophecy _your master_ was obsessed with said Harry was the only one with the power to defeat him. If Harry couldn't defeat him, anything you or I tried would be hopeless."

To his horror, she started to cry. Acting on instinct, Draco reached out a hand and awkwardly patted her shoulder. "C'mon, Granger," he said in a bracing tone. "You know Divination is a load of hippogriff shite. Did the prophecy actually identify Potter by name? Tell me exactly what it said."

Obediently, she recited it, word for word, and added what she knew about the circumstances in which the prophecy was made.

Draco narrowed his eyes. "So according that fraud Trelawney, we need a wizard, born at the end of July, whose parents defied the Dark Lord three times. Apiece or each?"

"Does it really matter?" Granger asked dully, wiping away her tears.

Draco shrugged. "Maybe. Did it specify the year in which our savior was to be born?" he inquired, not even trying to keep a sarcastic inflection out of his voice. The idea of Potter as the Chosen One had always rankled.

"The prophecy was made in the spring of 1980," Granger sniffled, but at least she was no longer crying. "Harry was born a few months later."

"That's meaningless," Draco said dismissively. "Seers and prophecies don't recognize time in any sensible, linear manner. When they predict an event is imminent, it could be measured in months or even years, or it could be mere minutes."

"But it said 'the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord _approaches_ ,'" Granger stressed.

"So? Is that how you'd describe a baby being born? Maybe it was talking about some bloke who was walking into the Hog's Head for a drink, or a student who was coming into the village for the next Hogsmeade weekend," Draco argued. "We need a list of wizards born at the end of July, no matter what year."

Granger perked up slightly, perhaps at the idea of a research project. "I know the prophecy could have referred to Neville, too, since he was born the day before Harry, to two Aurors," she offered. Then she frowned. "But it also said 'the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal.' He gave Harry the scar on his forehead when he tried to kill him as a baby, but he never marked Neville."

"Longbottom? The Dark Lord marked him today," Draco pointed out. "See, there's always a work-around."

"He marked Neville as a follower, not as an equal," she shook her head.

"I'm not talking about his Dark Mark, Granger," Draco said, just to be contrary as she was. Personally, he could not see the bumbling Gryffindor taking down Voldemort, even with their assistance, though he _had_ rather handily disposed of that snake. "I'm talking about the scar he's going to have around his hairline from wearing a flaming hat. Like a crown."

"Maybe," Granger conceded. "Do you want me to speak to him?"

"No need to be so impetuous, little lioness," Draco cautioned, grinning at how the endearment made her bridle.

"By any chance were you thinking about Longbottom when my aunt questioned you at Malfoy Manor?" he inquired.

His mother had told him Granger had the knowledge to defeat the Dark Lord. Narcissa also had said her sister had seen that knowledge in Granger's mind but dismissed it as a sign that she was losing her mind under the Cruciactus Curse. That _could_ fit with the idea of Longbottom as the savior of the wizarding world, but it did not seem quite right to Draco.

"When Bellatrix tortured me, you mean?" Granger corrected him, not mincing words as she reflexively rubbed the slur scarred into the inside of her arm.

Draco nodded. "Yes. Were you thinking about Longbottom?"

She looked at him as though he were mental. "No."

"What were you thinking about, then?" he asked.

Granger looked down. "I don't remember," she muttered in an obvious lie.

Draco frowned, but did not call her on it. "It's important, Granger," he urged. "Why don't you take a shower and try to remember? The hot water may help you focus." It also was a small step to help build her trust. Plus, the witch was desperately in need of a wash.

"Alright, Malfoy," she agreed dully, standing and swaying on her feet from exhaustion. Draco realized she probably had not slept in two days. She caught herself with a hand on the back of the sofa before he could do anything. "Where's the loo?"

He pointed her in the right direction. "Through the bedroom."

She bit her lip. "Malfoy, do you have any dittany? I need to heal the cut on my leg, but I lost my bag during the battle."

"I'll check my godfather's storage cupboard while you're in shower, to see what I can find," he promised. "Or I could just heal it myself," he offered, with a roguish grin. He would not object at getting Granger to spread her supple thighs for him, for whatever reason.

"In your dreams, ferret boy," she shot back, turning red to the roots of her hair. "You could also give me my wand back, so I could heal it myself."

"I'd be willing to enter into negotiations," Draco replied, suppressing a smile. Granger was cute when she was angry. "For starters, I prefer not to be reminded of my brief time as a rodent."

"F-fe-fucker," she managed to get out. "You know you loved having an excuse to get into Crabbe's pants."

"Go take a shower," he told her, rolling his eyes. "You're even more filthy than usual, and it's making you tetchy."

The bedroom door closed behind her with more force than necessary. Draco remained seated on the couch, until he heard water running through the pipes. Then he tossed back his third cognac of the evening and poured a fourth, sipping it with his feet on the table, a slovenly posture his mother would have deplored. He shook his head, not wanting to think about his mother trapped in Nott Manor or what she might be forced to do there to survive. Draco shivered and lifted his wand to wordlessly light a fire in the grate, telling himself that the chill in Hogwarts' dungeons lingered well into May.

Shifting his thoughts to the witch presently scrubbing herself in the shower in the next room over was equally discomfiting. The brand on Granger's back was a pernicious thing, made even worse by how subtly it allowed him to control her. By rights, she should have spent the evening screaming at him and trying to escape. Instead, she had sat next to him and carried on a reasonably cordial conversation - just as he had suggested they do. With no hesitation, Granger also had shared the secret prophecy with him, just because he had told her to tell him what it said. The knowledge that Neville could be a substitute Chosen One was invaluable, literally worth his life.

Of course, Granger knew he had given her certain direct orders - to not kill him, and to refrain from calling him master or ferret. She had not recognized Draco's more subtle manipulations, in the form of the casual sort of instructions people gave to one another in everyday conversation. The brand on her back made her obey those as commands. Draco knew Granger would be furious when she realized what he was doing, even if some of it was inadvertent. He doubted she would give him any credit for the restraint he had shown - after all, he could have just ordered her to tell him whatever it was she knew and was hiding from him that might be useful in defeating the Dark Lord. But Draco had meant what he said - he wanted her as an equal and willing co-conspirator, with her formidable intelligence firmly on his side.

Making a noise between a groan and a sigh, Draco pinched his nose in frustration. When he was younger, perhaps thirteen or so, he would have reveled in the idea of having a feisty witch like Granger at his beck and call, especially after she had punched him. Now, a month shy of his eighteenth birthday, having grown up fast with a monster living in his house, the reality of it sickened him.

Even worse, while his younger self would have had no idea what to do with a girl, older Draco knew exactly what he would like to do to Granger. He could not stop thinking about her naked in the shower, with soapy water streaming down her fantastic legs as she rinsed. He was vaguely ashamed that he had been so aroused and gotten off so quickly in the broom closet, with no spells required despite Granger's patent fear and disgust. Draco _never_ wanted to be a wizard like that. He was going to keep his word not to touch her like that again without her consent, which he expected would be forthcoming right about never.

The flames in the fireplace flickered green. With no other warning, Draco was greeted with the unwelcome sight of Amycus Carrow's piggish face, with the man's plump lips clamped around a Muggle cigarette. Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust, even though the smell of smoke could not travel through the Floo.

"What do you want, Amycus?" he asked coldly. The shower still was running, and Draco was getting anxious to check on Granger. He had not prohibited her from harming herself, thinking it unnecessary, but she had had more than enough time to get clean and for a good cry.

"Just to tell you that the Dark Lord wants to meet with us tomorrow at noon, to discuss how he wants to run Hogwarts," Amycus replied. He looked avidly around the room. Voyeur that he was, he was clearly disappointed that he had not interrupted Draco shagging Granger.

"Fine," Draco said dismissively.

"Where's your Mudblood?" Carrow demanded. "I thought you'd be busy all night, fucking her six ways 'til Sunday."

"It _is_ Sunday," Draco drawled obnoxiously. "I've gotten her a bit dirty, so I told her to go take a shower. Speaking of which, shouldn't you be off tupping your bint?" He had nothing against Hannah Abbott, but the shower had just stopped running. Now he was worried about Granger coming into the room and saying something that made it clear their relationship was not one of master and slave, and he wanted to get rid of Carrow quickly.

"Jugson's taking a turn," Amycus said casually.

"You're not man enough to keep even a Hufflepuff satisfied?" Draco jibed.

"I fucked 'er bloody, I did," Amycus boasted, "but I'm not so young as I used to be. I need some time to recover before I go again, and I owed Jugson ten Galleons. He'll take repayment in quim instead of quid." He gave a coarse laugh at his own joke, while Draco looked at him with a stony expression.

"Malfoy?" Granger called from the bedroom doorway. In the fireplace, Carrow gave an appreciative whistle.

"What, Granger?" Draco spoke harshly as he turned to face her, unsurprised from the lustful look on Carrow's face that she was wearing nothing but a towel. "I'm busy speaking with Amycus," he added by way of warning.

"Oh," she said, clutching the towel tighter. "Er, I just wondered if you had something I could wear to bed."

"Why would I bother giving you clothes to wear to bed when I'm just going to rip them off you?" Draco asked rhetorically, for Carrow's benefit.

While Amycus continued to leer at her, Draco focused on her face as a distraction from her towel-clad body. With the dirt and soot washed off, her pallor was evident, as were the dark circles under her eyes. She looked utterly knackered.

"Go to bed, Granger," he ordered deliberately, wanting her to obey for her own good. Without a word, she turned on her heel and retreated into the bedroom, closing the door sharply behind her.

"Demanding chit, wanting clothes," Carrow chortled. "If she were mine, I'd keep her naked for a couple o' days, teach her a lesson."

"Yes, well, she's mine," Draco said repressively. "If there's nothing else, I'd like to get back to her."

"Yer a randy one, Malfoy! I'll leave you to get to it," Carrow said by way of farewell. Draco locked and warded the Floo as soon as his ugly head disappeared. The Founders must be spinning in their graves to have a lout like that as headmaster. He spared a moment's sympathy for poor Abbott before entering the bedroom.

To his surprise, Granger had left one candle burning so he would not trip finding the bed in an unfamiliar room in the dark. From her even breathing, she was either asleep or pretending to be, curled up in a small ball on the far side of the bed, wearing one of his shirts. Apparently, the Hogwarts elves had brought his clothes over from his old room and Granger had helped herself. Draco shrugged, then shucked off his shoes and clothes, climbing into bed on the other side wearing only his boxer shorts. The house-elves had been busy, since the sheets were his own grey satin rather than whatever his godfather had used. He stretched on the surprisingly comfortable mattress, the familiar texture and scent helping him to relax.

" _Nox_ ," he whispered, extinguishing the candle. "Sweet dreams, Granger," he added softly, in case she still was awake and listening.


	22. Theo Gets a Ring

**_May 3, 1998, continued_**

Theo's eyelids felt as though they were weighted down with silver Sickles. He was lying on his back, immobilized, wondering if he had died and if his body was now being prepared for burial. That would make sense, since his last memory was of an enraged Weasley threatening to kill him. Then Theo inhaled, smelling something sweetly elusive, like bluebells in the springtime after the rain. He felt an ache in his ribcage as his lungs expanded, and realized he was very much alive, lying on a lumpy mattress in a partial Body Bind, with his right arm heavily bandaged.

With a great effort, he cracked open one eye, catching a glimpse of silvery-blond hair in the dim light of the room. "Draco? Is that you?"

The owner of the silvery-blond hair moved into his line of sight, bringing a hint of the bluebell scent with her. "Not Draco."

Theo blinked at the ethereal girl through a potions-induced haze. "You're not Draco. You're prettier than Draco," he blurted out.

"Do you really think so?" she asked, tilting her head to the side as she considered his statement. "Perhaps I am. Malfoy was very pretty as a boy, but he's more handsome and angular now that he's grown up."

"Are you an angel?" Theo asked uncertainly, reconsidering his earlier conclusion that he was alive. Although if he were dead, he thought he would qualify for purgatory at best, assuming his Dark Mark did not automatically consign him to the depths of hell.

"No, I'm not an angel. We were at school together, but you probably don't know who I am," the blonde girl explained. "I'm Luna Lovegood, but most people call me Loony."

"Ravenclaw, sixth year, D.A. member, went with Potter to last year's Slug Club Christmas party," Theo recited quickly. Like any good Slytherin, he knew information was power. He also held a firm belief in keeping his friends close and his enemies closer, though he did not like to think of this angelic girl as an enemy. "Your father publishes the _Quibbler_. You're a - "

He shut his mouth as she looked at him inquiringly. The potions-induced fog in his brain was lifting, and he realized it would be poor form to insult her as a blood traitor.

The ginger standing guard in the corner of the room, outside of Theo's limited range of vision, was not so tactful. "Don't you dare call Luna dotty or mental!" said Ron Weasley, all fired up.

"I wasn't going to say that," Theo protested mildly.

"You were going to call me a blood traitor," Luna said insightfully. "I heard that a lot when I was kept in the cellar at Malfoy Manor, but it doesn't really make sense, does it?"

Weasley snorted. "It does if you're a racist, inbred prick."

"What do you mean by it?" she asked Theo directly, giving him a disconcerting stare from her blue-grey eyes.

"I, er, I mean if you have pure blood, it's special, and you should be loyal to your own kind. Birds of a feather, and all that," Theo explained, weakly.

"See, that's what I don't understand!" Luna exclaimed. "Magic is special, but blood is just red. _All_ witches and wizards are like special magical birds - purebloods, Muggleborns, half-bloods." She flapped her arms like a bird in emphasis. "All of us should flock together instead of fighting over how many of our grandparents were magical, too."

She stopped flapping and gave Theo another searching look. "And if you're so certain pure blood is better, even though that's just silly, why is your leader a half-blood? His father was a Muggle, you know."

From his corner, Ron snorted in derision at Theo's gobsmacked expression. "No, this tosser didn't know. Nott had no idea ol' Snake Face's dad was a Muggle."

Theo felt like he had been Confounded, but then rallied. "That isn't true!" he scoffed. "Let me guess - this is something you read in the _Quibbler_?"

"No," Luna said serenely. "Daddy was going to publish all the proofs, but then Death Eaters kidnapped me off the Hogwarts Express, so he was too scared they would hurt me if he did."

"Proofs?" asked Theo, trying to maintain his skepticism. There had been rumors, after all, as to why Severus Snape was so favored, despite the professor's Muggle father, and Theo's father once had warned him, quite sharply, to never disparage half-bloods in the presence of the Dark Lord.

"Mm-hmm," Luna said, apparently transfixed by something above Theo's head. "A Muggle birth certificate; his Hogwarts letter, sent to a Muggle orphanage; some photographs and yearbooks from his time at Hogwarts; Muggle news clippings about the mysterious death of his father and grandparents. They were found dead in their manor, with not a mark on them. Obviously it was the Killing Curse, but the Muggles were baffled."

"May I see them?" Theo asked, his throat dry. Charlus had taught him to value cold, hard facts above all else.

"Certainly," Luna said vaguely. "You can take a look over breakfast. Did you know you have a nargle infestation? I can see at least a dozen flying around your head."

Theo sighed in relief. Though sweet-natured and easy on the eyes, Luna Lovegood clearly was a few Sickles short of a Galleon. He knew there were no nargles circling his head, because nargles did not exist. Presumably, her proofs about the Dark Lord's Muggle parentage were just as imaginary.

Luna approached the bed and waved her hand, loosening the restraints that held Theo down. "Sorry about that. The acromantula venom causes hallucinations, and you were thrashing quite a bit."

"Plus we don't trust you as far as we can throw you. Without magic," Ron added with a glare.

"Thank you for patching me up. And for calling off the violent ginger," Theo said to Luna, ignoring Weasley.

She shrugged. "I told George there's more to you than a Dark Mark. And he shouldn't be angry at you for using Fred's wand. The wand chooses the wizard, you know."

"He's still a Death Eating bastard. If it were up to me and George, we'd have tossed you off the cliff with the rest of the snake and skull crew," Ron muttered.

"Fortunately for Theo, cooler heads prevailed." With a quick rap on the doorframe, barely a knock, a tall, scarred man walked into the small bedroom. Theo recognized his voice - this was the cursebreaker who had remained so uncannily calm after the battle despite his inability to bring down the Anti-Apparition words. His red hair proclaimed him to be yet another Weasley.

His next words confirmed it. "Bill Weasley," he said, offering Theo a nod but not his hand. "I'd like to take a look at your left arm."

Theo's eyes widened in sudden horror. "The Mark! The Dark Lord will be able to track me here!" Or he could summon Theo repeatedly, until Theo lost his mind from the mental pressure and inability to obey, since he had no wand to Apparate away. He was being kept in a spare bedroom rather than a dungeon, but Theo had no illusions - he was a prisoner.

"It's been chewed off," Ron spoke bluntly, suppressing a shudder. "By a giant spider."

"The last time I checked your Dark Mark, it was inoperable due to the acromantula venom and physical damage," Bill confirmed. "I want to see if that's still the case now that you've had some time to heal."

Carefully, he unwrapped the bandages around Theo's arm, baring the lacerated forearm. Bill ran his wand over what remained of the Dark Mark, frowning slightly to himself. Then he looked up at the younger wizard with a very faint smile. "Congratulations, Theo. You're no longer a Death Eater."

"I don't think he ever really was," Luna said softly. "Not truly in his heart."

Theo felt horribly guilty at that, not wanting to disillusion her about what he had done to earn his Dark Mark, even if he had done very little since. Two wizards younger than Theo no longer had a father because of him, and Madam Cresswell was a widow. Every time he visited his vault at Gringott's, Theo wondered what the goblins would do to him if they knew. They had respected Dirk Cresswell, as much they respected as any wizard, not caring that his parents were Muggles.

"Doesn't change the fact that Nott _was_ one," Ron sneered. "And he's still a scummy Slytherin. A complete waste of space, since we'll never be able to trust him with a wand. He'll slither back to his precious Dark Lord the first chance he gets."

"Oh!" exclaimed Luna, once again ignoring the youngest Weasley brother. "I found this in your pockets when I searched them. I can't give you your wand back for now, but you can't harm anyone with this."

She held out her hand, with the little black pebble Theo had found in the Forbidden Forest nestled in her palm.

"Oh, thank Merlin!" Even though he had only found it mere days ago, Theo already thought of the tiny stone as a talisman. He was mildly embarrassed by how quickly he snatched it from her outstretched hand, causing Bill Weasley to raise an eyebrow.

"It's so small. You should mount it in ring or a pendant to keep from losing it," Luna suggested.

Theo looked up, surprised that she had so uncannily echoed his own thoughts. "I had thought to make a ring, but I'm a bit lacking in resources at the present," he admitted.

"It's no trouble," Luna said cheerily. "Here, take this." Removing one of the silver bangles from her wrist, she placed it on his palm, surrounding the black stone. With a few words from her and a flash of hot light, Theo was left holding a simple but elegant man's ring, sized for his littlest finger. He slipped it on, admiring the stone with its geometric carving.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Don't coddle the ickle Death Eater, Luna."

"May I see that?" Bill asked, clearly concerned by Theo's obvious covetousness towards the stone. Reluctantly, Theo removed the ring and passed it over to the cursebreaker for examination. Carefully avoiding touching the black stone, Bill poked and prodded at it with the tip of his wand, much to Theo's carefully hidden annoyance.

"This is Grindelwald's mark," Bill growled. "And this stone is old magic that was protected by a very powerful withering curse, recently broken. Where did you get this, Nott?"

"I found it in the Forbidden Forest," Theo said, telling half the truth. Luna gave him a knowing look, recognizing that his statement also was half a lie. Potter had dropped it there.

She peered curiously around Bill's wand arm. "Are you also on a Quest for the Deathly Hallows?"

Theo had no idea what she was talking about, but Ron stiffened in his corner in a classic Gryffindor overreaction.

"The Deathly Hallows?" Bill asked for both of them.

"The Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, the Cloak of Invisibility." As she listed them, Luna used her wand to draw three shimmering, golden symbols in the air: a straight line for the wand, surrounded by a circle for stone, both encased in a triangle for the cloak. "These are the Deathly Hallows."

Theo blinked and looked the black stone that had been Potter's and now belonged to him. It bore the same design.

"Harry, Hermione and Ron were looking for the Deathly Hallows . . . among other things," Luna informed Bill and Theo.

"Shut it, Luna," Ron warned, a pained expression crossing his face at the mention of his two lost friends. "You can't trust a snake with that kind of secret."

Mentally, Theo shook his head at the ginger's stupidity, not to mention lack of manners. He should have played it off as a fable or figment of Luna's _highly_ creative imagination. Instead, he had confirmed that the Deathly Hallows were real, and Theo had one in the possession.

Theo cudgeled his mind, recalling hints of the story of the three brothers his mother used to read to him at bedtime, along with the other fairytales, before the vicious fight with his father that ended with her landing in a heap at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck. "Does that make me the master of Death?" he asked, keeping his voice as steady as he could.

"Not unless you also have the wand and the cloak," Luna shook her head. "And you don't. I checked your pockets quite thoroughly."

Theo's cheeks turned scarlet at the idea of Luna's hand delving in his trousers, even though she spoke matter-of-factly, without a hint of flirtatiousness. "Er - "

"But you should be able to bring people back from the Veil once we figure out how the stone works," she continued blithely, before Theo recovered the power of speech. "And I think there's someone in particular we'd all like to see again."

Theo just gaped at her, wondering if this was real or if he had tumbled down a rabbit hole and into a bizarre kingdom, like in another of his mother's stories.


	23. Percy Pulls Rank

**_May 3, 1998, continued_**

Bright and early on Sunday morning, Percy Floo'd from his small flat near the Ministry of Magic to the Three Broomsticks in Hogsmeade. Short-sleeved robes were not really his style, but he had dug deep into his wardrobe to find a set. As he anticipated, it was an practical and perhaps even inspired fashion choice, despite the raw Scottish spring weather that mandated a cloak over the light-weight robes.

"Percy Weasley!" a hollow-eyed Madam Rosmerta gasped from behind the bar. Her pub was already open, with more than a few wizards and witches drowning their sorrows. "I'm going to have to call the Aurors!"

"No need, Rosmerta," Percy said, flicking his cloak back to expose the Dark Mark on his forearm. "Just passing through on my way to the castle. Though I do appreciate the warning."

She dropped the glass she was wiping down in shock, lips firmly clamped against any statement that might get her in trouble. The proprietress of the Three Broomsticks was nominally neutral, which was why her pub still was in operation, but Percy knew she had always had a soft spot for Dumbledore and his Order of the Phoenix.

He walked swiftly through the village on the well-worn path towards Hogwarts, reviewing possible permutations of his plan. From a distance, the castle looked unscathed, though as he drew closer, Percy could see the damage inflicted by the battle that had been fought on Friday night and into Saturday morning. It shocked him to think it had been a bare twenty-four hours since the Light Side's defeat and fewer than twelve hours since he had joined the Dark. Other than a lingering ache in his left forearm, Percy felt no different, and he had to wonder what that said about him.

His skin tingled as he passed through the ancient castle wards. As he suspected, they were regenerating, which is why he had not tried to Apparate directly to Hogwarts this morning. Percy judged that he still would be able to Apparate out, which would make his task easier.

The Great Hall was quiet this early in the morning, the silence broken only by the snoring of a few stragglers who had passed out on the benches or the floor to sleep off the excesses of the revel the night before. Percy averted his eyes from the purple face and protruding tongue of the Hufflepuff girl who had been forced to service the Minister and so many others before being strangled with her own yellow-striped tie.

"What an appalling waste," he muttered to himself. As Thicknesse's assistant, Percy was privy to troubling data showing the magical birthrate was on the decline. The casualties from the battle would only exacerbate the actuarial difficulties posed by a shrinking pool of young witches and wizards supporting a growing number of elderly pensioners. Shaking his head, Percy moved purposefully towards where his parents' and brother's bodies were hanging from the stone wall.

"Just whaddaya think yer doin'?" demanded one of the Snatchers, just as Percy had levitated his mother's corpse gently to the ground.

Percy gave him a haughty look. "I am removing these bodies," he stated in a precise, clipped tone.

The Snatcher scratched himself, looking suspicious and anxious both. "But . . . They're blood traitors," he said finally.

"So?" Percy raised a supercilious eyebrow. "Haven't you read the _Prophet_?" he asked rhetorically, since he doubted the man was literate. "The Minister said he intends for classes to resume tomorrow."

The man gaped at him, as Percy continued, shifting his arm so the Dark Mark was plainly visible. "Nott told me that all the bodies are to be removed today. You should expect to see others coming to claim their kin."

Percy's casual mention of a member of the inner circle, in combination with the casual way he was flashing his Dark Mark, did the trick. The Snatcher subsided with troubled frown. "Alright, whatever. Just don't expect me to help."

He wandered away, leaving Percy to finish his grim task. He received an unpleasant surprise when he tried to Apparate to the Burrow's kitchen and found himself spinning in place in the Great Hall in a macabre sort of dance with Fred's stiff body. Percy felt unaccountably hurt that his family had warded his childhood home against him, until he realized it was nothing personal - just a line of defense to prevent anyone bearing the Dark Mark from entering the Burrow.

Percy instead Apparated his brother and parents in turn to the far edge of their property, where a low hill and line of trees divided the Weasleys' land from their Muggle neighbors. Using his wand, he dug two graves in the shadow of an ancient oak tree - his parents together and Fred next to them. The Weasley family had long since abandoned the old ways, but Percy still buried them facing to the west, towards the Irish Sea and mythical hidden isles. Unable to find a suitable headstone, he used his wand to carve their names, dates of birth, and date of death on the tree trunk, his handwriting neat despite the tears in his eyes.

Percy was sagging with exhaustion by the time he finished. Magic made things easy, but not effortless. Still, there was something important he needed to retrieve from the house, and that meant breaking through the wards. It took less time than he had feared, the magic already fading with his parents' deaths. By mid-morning, he was in the living room, staring at the faintly discolored circle on the wall where his mum's clock used to hang.

"Oh, bugger!" he swore softly. "I suppose there's nothing for it." Taking a pinch of Floo powder from the nearly empty jar, he threw it into the grate and steeled himself. "Auntie Muriel's!"

His elderly great-aunt, the widow of Molly Weasley's eldest uncle, lived in the decaying Prewett mansion. Percy had heard through the Ministry grapevine that the rest of his family had taken shelter with her there, after Death Eaters had attacked the Burrow and tried to burn it to the ground.

"You need to leave, Percy!" Auntie Muriel screeched, even as he climbed out of the fireplace into her parlor. "I already told Ronald. I won't risk having any more Weasley layabouts in my house, not after what happened at Hogwarts!"

"What exactly do you think happened at Hogwarts, Auntie Muriel?" Percy inquired, brushing soot from his robes. He had read the _Prophet_ , of course, with its blatantly false account of a violent student riot led by Harry Potter and put down by Aurors with courageous assistance from the new headmaster, Amycus Carrow, but he was curious to see if the public was fooled.

His great-aunt was not. "Your side lost," she snorted, brandishing the _Daily Prophet_. "I always warned Molly she would come to a bad end, joining that ruddy Order of the Phoenix with her brothers. She could have had Selwyn, or even Nott, but no. She wound up marrying your father, poor provider that he was, always tinkering with that Muggle rubbish."

"It's not polite to speak ill of the dead," Percy said coldly. He would have said more, but for the telltale shine in his great-aunt's rheumy eyes. Muriel was mourning her niece in her own inimitable way.

She made a harrumphing sound and turned back to the newspaper. "I see that your brother Alfred was among the dead, too," she added, raising spiteful dark eyes from the column of casualties. "He always was a hooligan, setting off Dung Bombs and selling those illegal joke products. How many of you Weasleys are left, anyways?"

"Six of us. Bill, Charlie, George, Ron, Ginny and myself," Percy answered, keeping a tight rein on his temper by reminding himself that his great-aunt was more than a century old and more than a bit senile.

"I'm glad William made it out," Aunt Muriel allowed. She had always had a soft spot for the eldest Weasley boy. "And at least Ginevra made a good match of it." She flipped the paper to the society page. "Rodolphus Lestrange may be nutty as a fruitcake, but he's wealthy enough that his insanity is excused as eccentricity."

Percy gaped at her, having no idea what to say in response to the old lady's callousness towards Ginny's plight.

"Why are you still here, boy?" Muriel demanded irritably. "Kneazle got your tongue? I gave you fair warning when I told you to leave. The Aurors have already been here once, looking for Weasleys, and I won't hesitate to call them again."

With that, Percy recovered the power of speech. "I would like my mother's clock, and then I'll be on my way, Auntie."

"That's a Prewett family heirloom," she said shrilly. "You shan't have it! Now get out, before I really do call the Aurors!"

For the third time that morning, Percy showed his Dark Mark. "Go right ahead," he dared her. "They won't do anything to me."

His great-aunt studied his forearm and then looked up, meeting his eyes without flinching. "I always thought that you and William inherited all of the brains in the family, but you've a particular knack for self-preservation. You'll find the clock in the kitchen, Percy."

He nodded. "One more thing, Auntie Muriel," Percy said, taking his leave, still stiffly polite. "Call me rather than the Aurors the next time any of my brothers show up."

Once back in his sterile, impersonal flat, Percy sat at his small kitchen table to unwrap his mum's precious clock.

As he had expected, the hands with Fred's picture, and his mum's and his dad's, were stuck permanently at _lost_. Percy swallowed hard, his throat tight at the finality of it.

Prosaically, Charlie's hand pointed to _work_. Dragons needed to be fed and cared for, even on the weekends, even on a weekend after a brutal battle. Percy was happy his brother had stayed in Romania, well away from wizarding Britain.

The hands for Bill and Fleur, who had been added to the clock upon their marriage, were at home. According to the hand with his picture on it, Ron was still lazing in bed, probably in the guest room at Shell Cottage, while George was off in someone's garden, probably pruning Fleur's rose bushes.

Percy sagged in relief that the clock showed none of them were in mortal peril. It was a testament to Bill's Fidelius Charm that they were all safe, at least in the immediate present. He made a mental note to try and find some way to contact them, not wanting to rely on Auntie Muriel in the slightest.

Ginny's situation was more troubling, the hand with her picture swinging slowly between home and prison. From that, Percy inferred that she had been taken to the Lestrange manor, and that she was not finding it to her liking. He fought down a feeling of impotent guilt, one that he was becoming far too familiar with where his sister was concerned. Percy hoped it was the case that Ginny considered her new residence a prison because she was unable to leave, and not that the Lestrange brothers were keeping her in an actual dungeon. He supposed he would find out in a couple of weeks, during the first of his negotiated visits with his sister.

Only one hand on the clock pointed to mortal peril, and that was Percy's own. Despite his mum's notorious temper and their falling out, she had never removed the hand with his picture from the clock. Percy found it oddly touching, but that did not stop him from leaning forward and snapping it off. He knew he was on a perilous course as a Death Eater under false pretenses, and he did not need - or want - a clock to remind him.


	24. Ginny's Morning After

**A/N: While there is nothing graphic, this chapter - as you can guess from the title - alludes to past sexual violence, including rape.**

 ** _May 3, 1998 - continued_**

Centimeter by excruciating centimeter, Ginny Weasley - not Lestrange, _never_ Lestrange, despite the band around her ring finger - wriggled her way out from under Rodolphus's hairy arm. The Death Eater stirred slightly, causing her to freeze, but then he rolled over and began snoring unabated onto his younger brother's shoulder.

Slowly and painfully, Ginny levered herself off the high, canopied bed and tiptoed towards the door, sidestepping empty bottles of Firewhiskey and a half-used tube of lubricant. Her stomach rolled, both from the amount of burning alcohol forced down her throat by Rodolphus - not her husband, _never_ her husband, despite the band around her ring finger - and from the hazy memories of the acts she had been made to perform. Her entire body ached from brutal and unaccustomed usage, radiating out from the raw pain between her legs.

Ginny desperately needed the loo, but she would be damned before she returned to the one off the master bedroom, not after last night. She had already spent too much time on her knees in the marble-tiled shower or bent over the lip of the soaking tub. She snatched her torn t-shirt off the floor, and, as quietly as possible, let herself out of the master bedroom and into a long corridor, grateful that the hinges were well-oiled and that both Lestrange brothers had been too drunk to set a Caterwauling Charm. She might be confined to the property, but at least she was not trapped in the master bedroom with two vicious rapists.

Once in the hallway, with the bedroom door shut safely behind her, Ginny took a moment to pull the t-shirt over her head, wincing as even the soft, well-worn cotton abraded the bite marks and bruises marring her torso. The shirt barely came past her hips and she had no knickers, her own having been ripped beyond repair, but it was better than roaming the Lestrange mansion naked.

Ginny made her way down the corridor, tottering rather than walking with her usual athletic strides. She had always regarded the expression about shagging a witch until she could not walk to be nothing more than the bragging of delusional wizards, but the combined brutality of the Lestrange brothers had proven her wrong. She even had lied to Rodolphus, telling him she was a virgin, not wanting him to know about her precious first time with Harry, but the Death Eater still had brutalized her. He had believed her, though - she certainly bled enough last night to make her lie plausible.

The hallway was lined with framed pictures, mercifully landscapes and seascapes of various picturesque parts of Cornwall rather than ancestral portraits. She was not in the mood to speak with or see any member of the Lestrange family, even those long-dead and confined to a two-dimensional canvas. There were also at least a dozen doors, all of them closed.

"Bugger," she swore viciously, as the fourth doorknob she tried stung her palm. All of the doors so far had been locked, but this was the first to be warded. If she could not find an unlocked door leading to another bathroom, Ginny decided she would squat in the hallway and merrily soil the antique Persian runner that covered its length. If Rodolphus and Rabastan wanted to call her their bitch, she would do her defiant Gryffindor best to live up the name.

The fifth door opened for her, however, revealing a pleasant guest room decorated in a pale green that made Ginny think of springtime. In addition to a pair of french doors leading to a balcony overlooking the sea, there was another interior door, a promising sign. As Ginny hoped, that door led to an en suite bath.

She lowered herself gingerly onto the toilet, hissing at how bloody much it stung to relieve herself. With that basic bodily function accomplished, Ginny went to wash her hands. After that, peering at her battered reflection in the ornate gold-framed mirror, she decided she would take a scalding shower, scrubbing herself under water as hot as she could stand.

"Well, it certainly looks like you were put through the wringer last night," said an acerbic female voice.

Ginny jumped in surprise, then narrowed her eyes at the mirror hanging over the basin. "Fuck off," she said, not in the mood to entertain commentary on her appearance.

"Healing salve is on the second shelf of the medicine cabinet, far left. That'll do for your bite marks and any other injuries. Pain potion is on the shelf below, with bruise paste right next to it," the mirror said, paying no attention to her rudeness.

The mix of bossiness and concern reminded the redhead of Hermione. Obediently, she removed the salve and paste and drank the pain potion, swallowing hard at the nasty taste. Ginny hoped her friend was in better shape than she was. At least Malfoy, spoilt and selfish ferret that he was, did not seem like the type to willingly share his toys.

"Which one of the arseholes blackened your eye?" asked the mirror as Ginny leaned in, dabbing the bruise paste around her eye socket.

"Rabastan," she replied. The pain potion was working quickly, helping her to feel immeasurably better.

"How odd. He's normally the more placid of the two," said the mirror.

Ginny smirked at her reflection. "I told him I'd seen more impressive equipment on a fifteen-year-old Ravenclaw, my first boyfriend. He didn't appreciate the comparison."

The mirror gave a throaty, feminine chuckle. "Oh, my! You are a brave one! You're lucky he didn't _Crucio_ you for that."

"He can't. Neither can Rodolphus." Ginny explained, with a touch of smugness. The Lestrange brothers had been immensely frustrated by that restriction, though that had not stopped them from coming up with other ways to hurt her. "They both took a magical oath with my brother that puts some limits on what they can do to me."

Irrationally, she felt a stab of anger towards Percy. If not for her brother and his Godric-damned foresight, Ginny knew she would have been able to goad one of the Lestrange brothers into murdering her.

"Aren't you a lucky one?" the mirror asked with a bitter sarcasm that made Ginny smile. "Rabastan must be thrilled to have married you."

The redhead scowled at the platinum and emerald ring on her finger. It was a beautiful piece of jewelry. It also kept her confined to the boundaries of the estate, unless Rodolphus or Rabastan chose to accompany her off the grounds, and prevented her from harming herself or them. "I'm actually married to the other one," she muttered with disgust.

"Whatever happened to Bella?" the mirror asked.

Ginny wondered if she was imagining the avid interest underlying the seemingly casual question. She had learnt the hard way from Tom Riddle's cursed diary to be mistrustful of magical objects, but charmed mirrors were commonplace in almost every wizarding household. Even the Burrow had a wheezy old mirror that always nagged her and her brothers to comb their hair. Perhaps this mirror was just charmed to be gossipy. "My mum killed her in a duel," she finally answered.

"And your mother? What happened to her?" the mirror inquired, in that same airy sort of voice.

"Dead as well, or so I assume," Ginny said, her voice flat.

"Well, death can sometimes be a mercy," the mirror counseled.

Ginny blinked at how an inanimate object managed to reflect her own thoughts. Though she supposed it _was_ a mirror, and reflecting was its job.

"Perhaps it was better for both of them," the mirror continued. "Poor Bella."

"Are you mental?" Ginny asked it, her own reflection gaping back at her in astonishment. "Bellatrix was a barmy bitch, even more of a monster than You Know Who!"

"I assure you, she was perfectly sane when I last saw her," the mirror said, sniffing in an offended way.

Her dad's warning - _never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain_ \- tickled at the back of her mind. But she rationalized that this mirror - even if it did seem unusually concerned with things other than personal appearances - was a standard household charmed object. And even if it was not, it was the closest thing to an ally she was going to find in the Lestrange household.

"Why do you care about Bellatrix so much, anyways?" Ginny asked, not without her own suspicions on that count.

"Why, Bella's the one who brought me here, when she married Rodolphus back in 1969," the mirror answered, innocently enough. "I was a wedding present from her grandparents. She wasn't a monster at eighteen, I promise you that. What year is it now, anyways?"

"It's 1998," Ginny replied, slowly. From the delicate carving, it was clear the mirror had been designed for a witch's boudoir. It would make sense that a charmed object like a magical mirror would retain some residual interest in its original owner. On the other hand, Tom in his diary form had always encouraged her to write about current events, to catch him up on the decades he had missed while confined to his Horcrux form.

"Nimue's tree, how time flies!" exclaimed the mirror. "I haven't seen Bella in nearly twenty years. I suppose much has changed in that time."

"That's an understatement," Ginny agreed, eying the mirror through narrowed brown eyes. She was no longer a naive eleven-year-old, to pour out her problems to a cursed magical object at the expense of her soul. Still, as she recalled another one of her dad's sayings, this one Muggle in nature, Ginny gave the mirror a grim smile, showing her teeth. _The enemy of mine enemy is my friend_.

She had decided it would not hurt to cultivate the mirror. "Other than telling me I look like shite, and advising me on the contents of the medicine cabinet, is there anything you can do to help me?"

"Well, that's certainly blunt!" the mirror said, chuckling. Ginny was reassured that it sounded nothing like Bellatrix's insane cackle. "I'm afraid there's very little I can do beyond that, just hanging here on the wall. Though I'm happy to share what I've observed of Rodolphus and Rabastan over the years."

Perversely, Ginny felt disappointed. As evil as Tom's diary had been, it had enabled her to do magic far beyond her capabilities. If the mirror had been a similar Dark artifact, she had hoped it might allow her to work around the strictures imposed by the wedding band encircling her fourth finger.

"That's kind of you, thank you," she thanked the mirror.

"Since we are going to be working together, shouldn't we introduce ourselves?" the mirror asked archly.

"Yes, I suppose I can't get away with calling you 'mirror, mirror on the wall,'" Ginny agreed, her mouth curving up in a small smile at the memory of the Muggle fairytale her dad used to read.

"And I don't suppose you would appreciate it if I called you Madam Lestrange," the mirror agreed.

"Godric, no!" the ginger witch shuddered. "I'm Ginny Weasley," she volunteered.

"It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ginny," the mirror spoke politely. "You can call me . . . Trixie."


	25. Draco the Drill Sergeant

**_May 4, 1998_**

In the ordinary course of things, Draco had no objection to waking up to a warm armful of girl in his bed. But in the topsy-turvy world created by Voldemort's victory, it was an acute form of torture to wake up with Granger nestled up against him, his morning glory flush against her pert arse. If it were any other witch, he already would have slipped a couple of fingers between her legs in preparation for a mutually satisfying wake-up call, but this was _Granger_.

Instead, Draco swore under his breath and pushed away from her, rolling back to his side of the bed to stare at the ceiling, his cock tenting the sheets. He sensed a pattern developing, one that was going to drive him 'round the twist with sexual frustration.

He and Granger had shared a bed for all of two nights. Both nights so far, she had started the evening curled into a tight ball on her side of the bed, while Draco sprawled on his back on his side, pretending he could not hear her crying herself to sleep. But as they slept, they met in the middle, like two children clinging together for comfort on a soft mattress in the dark. Then, when morning came, Draco found himself wrapped around Granger's body, feeling her warmth and soft curves, and desperately wanting a more carnal form of comfort.

During his hellish sixth year, he had discovered that shagging was a brilliant form of stress relief. When he was buried in Pansy, or Daphne, or really any willing witch, he was quite incapable of thinking about his mission, the Dark Lord, or the danger his family was in. All of that was subsumed, for a little while at least, in the sheer physical pleasure of thrusting into a tight, wet hole, taking pleasure and giving it back to the girl providing it.

However, Draco knew that sort of stress relief was entirely off the table where Granger was concerned. It wasn't that she was physically unattractive - far from it - but they shared an ugly history that had only gotten worse over the last few days. He owned her now, at least according to the Dark Lord and the runes tattooed on her back, and that ownership weighed heavily on Draco's tattered conscience. The only thing he could do was to maintain certain boundaries, and to make sure he did not step a toe over those self-imposed lines.

Yesterday, he and Granger had sat down on opposite ends of the sofa and negotiated those lines over a torturous and awkward three hours. Separately, Draco also had met with Carrow and the Dark Lord. During the course of a bollocks-shriveling hour, the Dark Lord had outlined his expectations for student behavior and performance at Hogwarts, while Draco kept up his Occlumency shields the entire while. It was a toss-up, in Draco's mind, as to which of the two meetings had been more grueling.

At least he now had Granger's explicit consent as to precisely what he could do to her, playing their public roles of master and slave. Some of the things he was permitted to do had come at Granger's suggestion, while others were his own ideas, which she had agreed to allow with varying degrees of reluctance. She had outright vetoed only a few acts, and he had to admit her safe phrase, for situations where they had to improvise, was utterly brilliant in its subtlety. Hopefully, they would manage to fool all of Hogwarts without strengthening Draco's hold over her, since everything he did to her in public would be consensual, no matter how it appeared. But in the privacy of their quarters, he was not going to touch her.

Given that implicit prohibition, Draco rolled out of the warm, comfortable bed, suppressing a groan at the chill of the room, and made his way to the loo. There, he grumpily debated between a hot or a cold shower to help take care of his not-so-little problem before deciding upon the latter. Yesterday's wank under the warm water had been disconcerting, because he found himself imagining clutching his fantasy-Pansy's suddenly curly hair as she sucked him off under the Quidditch stands, while the blonde and buxom Daphne Greengrass of his fond memories had transformed into a petite brunette as she rode his cock.

The cold water worked, though it left him shivering and miserable. Even though it was barely dawn and he had three hours to kill before his first class, Draco dressed quickly and quietly left his new rooms for the Slytherin dormitories. With an evil smirk, he recalled the old adage that misery loved company.

"Wake up, you wankers!" he shouted at the sleeping forms of Blaise, Greg, Longbottom and Smith. With a pang, Draco saw that Longbottom had taken Crabbe's old bed, while Smith was sleeping in Theo's. Wisely, neither had dared to attempt to claim Draco's bed as their own.

" _Lumos Maxima_!" he yelled, as the other boys grumbled and stirred too slowly for his liking.

"What the fuck, Malfoy?" Blaise yelped, sitting bolt upright in his bed.

"C'mon, Blaise," Draco urged. "You've had enough beauty sleep, and the rest of you tossers could snooze for a week and it wouldn't make any difference."

He grinned evilly at Smith and Longbottom as they blinked and rubbed their eyes. "You two about to discover why Slytherin wizards are so fit."

"Yeah, I'm sure," Smith grumbled. "Just look at Goyle."

"Oi, go bugger yourself," Greg shot back, flexing his arm to show off his biceps. "This is why we wipe the floor with you 'Puffs every single Quidditch match."

Longbottom gave Draco a dark look and began dressing in silence.

Within minutes, Draco had the four newly-minted Death Eaters upstairs and outside the castle through a postern door, running laps around the Quidditch pitch. Blaise had a sneer on his haughty dark face, finding any form of exercise beneath his dignity, but his long legs and slender build compensated for his lack of enthusiasm. Goyle ran slowly, but with a stolid determination. He would still be running, if Draco asked it of him, long after the others collapsed from exhaustion. Longbottom was surprisingly keeping up with the pace, but Draco supposed that evading the Carrows all year had required the formerly pudgy Gryffindor to get into shape. Zacharias Smith, however, was a disgrace, huffing like the Hogwarts Express after only the second lap.

"You've got eight more to go, Smith," Draco warned, loping next to him with an easy stride. "Better pace yourself."

"Fuck you, Malfoy. You can't make me do anything," Smith retorted, slowing to a walk.

Draco hit him with a Stinging Hex, right on his bony arse, smirking as Smith cried out in pain. "You'll find that I can, Zacharias. I outrank you as a Death Eater, after all. Merlin help me, if you don't start running, I'll _Imperio_ you and make you sprint around the pitch until you puke."

With a gulp, the Hufflepuff began jogging, muttering all the while.

"Don't waste your breath," Draco advised. "I could give a toss what you think about me."

After their brisk morning run, Draco led his fellow junior Death Eaters through a set of push-ups, crunches, and other calisthenics. Greg was used to them, since they were a routine part of Quidditch training for the Slytherin team, but Blaise and Smith were gasping before they finished, clutching at their stomaches. Longbottom, surprisingly, had no trouble, even though he remained eerily silent throughout the exercises.

"That's enough!" Draco barked, when his abdominal muscles were burning. Greg and Longbottom stopped and sat up, but Smith rolled over onto all fours, retching, while Blaise collapsed flat his back.

"I hate you, Malfoy," his friend gasped.

Draco grinned at him. "You'll hate me even more later, when you realize just how sore your muscles are. Greg, would you help our prima donna to stand up?"

Giving him a two-fingered salute, Blaise staggered to his feet on his own. "If it weren't for the uncanny resemblance to Lucius, I'd call you a bastard, Drake."

"I've heard worse," Draco shrugged.

"Why're you torturing us like this?" Smith whined.

"This isn't torture," Longbottom answered unexpectedly, with an equally unexpected sneer. "This is the kind of basic training that can help you stay alive in a duel."

Draco nodded in agreement. "Longbottom's right. Get up, Smith," he ordered, not offering him a hand. Instead, Draco glanced at his watch. "No time for a dip in the Black Lake, but I promise I'll take you pussies swimming there tomorrow. Now, back to the castle!"

He took off at a jog, knowing the incentive of hot showers and breakfast would be enough to get them to follow, though he did have to loop around to chivvy Smith. He really was a pathetic wanker, even for a Hufflepuff.

Draco stopped when they came across a work crew of prisoners, clearing rubble with Muggle tools under the bored supervision of a couple of Snatchers.

"Macmillan," he acknowledged one of them. "You're a pureblood. You know you don't have to do this."

Ernie Macmillian straightened to his full height, glaring over Draco's shoulder at Smith and Longbottom. "I prefer honest manual labor, myself," he said with a certain pompous dignity, despite his torn clothes and dirty face.

Draco thought to himself that he would much rather have a loyal Hufflepuff like Macmillian as a fellow Death Eater than a cowardly sneak like Smith, but the Badgers almost never turned dark.

"Have it your way," he said aloud. Draco raised his voice so all of the wizards on the work crew could hear him. "My witch lost a purple beaded bag during the battle. If you find it, you'll bring it to me if you know what's good for you."

"Hermione's not your witch," Longbottom snarled, suddenly looming over Draco.

Greg and Blaise moved forward to pull him back, but Draco already had his wand out, digging into the side of the Gryffindor's neck. Smith, of course, had hung back.

"Listen carefully, Longbottom, because you need to get this through your thick skull," Draco said with quiet menace, aware of the small audience intently watching their confrontation. "Granger _is_ my witch. Because of that brand I put on her back, I own her. More importantly, I can control her - her body and her mind. If I asked her to, she would betray you to me in a heartbeat." He hoped that Longbottom would get the implicit message that he could no longer trust Hannah Abbott, not while Carrow had possession of her.

"You're delusional, Malfoy," Longbottom said, his voice shaking in anger. "You can't own Hermione like that, or make her go against everything she believes in. It's . . . it's wrong," he finished, weakly.

"You'll find that I can," Draco replied coolly. "And that goes for every witch who was marked at that revel. They answer to their new masters, not their old friends or ex-boyfriends." He made it sound like a taunt, since the Gryffindor apparently required an explicit warning about Abbott.

"I don't believe you," Longbottom blustered.

"You can ask Granger yourself," Draco offered with utter confidence. "My witch will tell you what you need to know."

 **A/N: I really enjoyed all of the guesses last chapter as who and what Trixie may be, and what help she might offer. She was telling Ginny the truth (mostly) as to her limitations. For the guest who wanted more Dramione - in the spirit of full disclosure, this story is only about one-third of a Dramione, since there are four other characters whose POVs get equal time. And that structure isn't going to change - sorry!**


	26. Hermione's First Day of School

_**May 4, 1998 - continued**_

Hermione looked into the mirror, nervously adjusting the green and silver-striped tie and smoothing the pleats of the borrowed grey wool skirt with damp palms. If she weren't so nervous, she would have been amused that her entire uniform had been appropriated from Pansy Parkinson's wardrobe, down to the bra and knickers still bearing price tags from Madam Malkin's. As it was, she had never been so anxious about starting school, not even as a little firstie worried that she would never belong in this magical world. This time, she _knew_ she did not belong. She would be the sole Mudblood privileged to attend classes at Hogwarts, even if it was only as Malfoy's pet swot.

She raised her wand - surprisingly, Malfoy had given it back to her with minimal restrictions on its use - and applied a Glamour Charm to hide the dark circles under her eyes. She had been unable to get back to sleep after Malfoy's abrupt departure from the bed early in the morning, tossing and turning as her thoughts raced.

She, Harry and Ron had either missed a Horcrux, or Voldemort had made more, though she did not know if that was possible. She had to find that out, or figure out where they had gone wrong. _The diary, the locket, the ring, the cup, the diadem, the snake, and poor, dead Harry._ She had destroyed Hufflepuff's cup herself and seen Ravenclaw's diadem broken apart by Fiendfyre. Neville had killed Nagini, and Harry had been murdered before her eyes. Although she had not witnessed it personally, being Petrified and in the infirmary at the time, she was confident Harry had successfully destroyed the diary with a basilisk fang, because Voldemort's possession of Ginny had ended. That left the locket and the ring as possible misses.

Hermione had to think that Dumbledore knew how to competently destroy a Horcurx, though it was odd that the ring had remained intact enough for him to wear. And Harry and Ron had always been cagy about the destruction of the locket, saying only it had put up a good fight. Since there had been one fake locket, Hermione supposed it was possible there had been two - or really any other supposed Horcrux they had destroyed might have been a fake.

"Ready, Granger? We want to be in the Great Hall in time to put on a show for breakfast," Malfoy said, appearing behind her in the full-length mirror, startling out of her thoughts. Despite being up before dawn, he looked relaxed and perfectly put together. He gave her an appraising look and reached forward to adjust her collar so the top edge of the bite mark he had administered would show, his fingers just brushing the side of her neck.

She nodded, hoping the queasiness in her stomach would abate enough for her to choke down some food. Taking one last look in the mirror, Hermione adjusted her cuffs so her bruised wrists also were visible. She had healed the shallow cut on her thigh as soon as Malfoy returned her wand, but by common consent, they had left his other marks on her unhealed for others to see.

"You'll do." With that, Malfoy handed her his book bag, charmed so that it looked much heavier than it was. As soon as Hermione had slung it over her shoulder, he stalked out of their quarters, leaving her to follow in his wake, trying to look somewhat cowed. This was a carefully planned act, one put to the test as soon as they reached the main stairwell leading up to the Great Hall and ran into a pack of fifth and sixth-year Slytherin boys going up to breakfast.

"You let your Mudblood whore out of bed, Draco?" asked a pimply-faced boy, leering at Hermione.

"Work on your vocabulary, Baddock," Malfoy advised coolly. "I don't pay her; therefore, she's not a whore."

"Your Mudblood slag, then," Baddock accepted the correction, but continued his whiny protest. "Still, filth like that doesn't belong in a classroom, learning magic."

"Filth like this belongs _to_ _me_ , and therefore she goes _with_ _me_ ," Malfoy said, underscoring his response with a possessive hand on the small of Hermione's back, just where he had branded her. "Besides, why shouldn't I use her for her mind as well as her body?"

Baddock subsided, though he blinked his beady eyes in surprise at the poisonous glare Hermione threw him.

"Come on, pet," Malfoy said, tugging on her wrist. Hermione followed semi-obediently, reluctant to return to the Great Hall that had been the scene of so much carnage over the weekend. To her surprise and relief, all of the rubble had been removed and the tables and stone floor had been scrubbed clean, appearing as they always did.

"Budge up," Malfoy ordered some younger snakes to make room for them. Across the table, Goyle grunted a greeting and Blaise Zabini nodded, lips tight.

"I'll have bacon, scrambled eggs, and a slice of toast, buttered," Malfoy directed her, grey eyes gleaming with amusement. Hermione huffed as she dished out his food. Even though she had agreed to this subservient bit of role playing, Malfoy was enjoying himself far too much.

"Don't forget my pumpkin juice, Granger," he added.

Hermione poured out a goblet with a steady hand, deciding today was not the day she would spill some on him. If she did, they agreed he would twist her wrist until she cried out, before pushing her head down onto his lap to make her lick the juice off his trousers as a punishment for her clumsiness.

"Now you may help yourself," Malfoy graciously granted, starting on his own breakfast. She took porridge and added honey and fruit as he watched. "Take some bacon and eggs, too," he ordered. "You're too skinny. I only like riding broomsticks on the Quidditch pitch."

Rolling her eyes at the innuendo, Hermione made herself a bacon and egg sandwich. After months of scrounging for food on the run, she appreciated a hot breakfast, no matter what the company.

"Why are there so few girls at the Slytherin table?" she asked between bites. "I'm shocked they've all left you, charming as you are."

Goyle looked up from his food, startled, while Zabini's lips curled in cold amusement. "She's a feisty one," he observed to Malfoy. "I thought the brand made her obey your every whim."

"I like her feisty," Malfoy grinned. "I haven't forbidden her from using her mouth, so long as she minds her teeth."

Zabini smirked. After a beat, Goyle chuckled, as though he finally got the joke or at least realized he should laugh.

Hermione failed to see any humor in the situation. The brand _did_ make her want to obey Malfoy's every whim, not just explicit commands. It ranged from silly things, like picking out the crispiest pieces of bacon for the git, to a desire to service him much more intimately. This morning, she had woken a few minutes before Malfoy, very aware of his erection pressed up against her buttocks. She could chalk up his response to her as a normal male reaction to proximity and diurnal cycles, but her own urge to reach back and stroke him was entirely inexcusable. She and Malfoy were not on those terms. Indeed, she was not even sure if she trusted him enough to conspire with him, except she had no better option.

"You didn't answer my question, Zabini. There aren't any Slytherin girls here above fourth year. Where are they?" Hermione asked, snippily.

To her surprise, he grinned, showing very white teeth. "I had a Portkey to Italy, which I missed, but every Slytherin witch even close to marriageable age as well as the more traditional Ravenclaw girls managed to get a fingertip on it. My mum now has a veritable coven at her villa."

"Every other neutral student who was evacuated came back, though," Hermione pointed out.

"The Ministry said they had to," Goyle contributed. Even so, there were notable gaps at all of the House tables, with virtually no upper-level students at the Gryffindor or Hufflepuff tables with so many dead or fled after fighting on the losing side. Neville was a notable exception, sitting isolated at the end of the table with a forbidding expression on his normally pleasant face.

"The British Ministry of Magic has no jurisdiction in Italy," Zabini shrugged. "I don't blame any witch for staying there rather than coming back for a forced marriage to something like that." He jerked his head towards the High Table where Amycus Carrow was eating his breakfast like a pig at the trough.

Hermione glanced at the new headmaster and quickly looked away from the sight of Hannah Abbott, wearing a tattered negligee that revealed far too many bruises, crouched by Carrow's chair and meekly eating whatever scraps he fed her by hand. Neville was watching, and from the vicious cuts he was inflicting on his breakfast sausage, Hermione was fairly certain he was imagining just how he was going to murder Carrow. Not that she blamed him, but if Neville was the new Chosen One, he could not afford to be sidetracked by personal revenge.

Goyle frowned at the sight of Hannah on her knees, being fed like a pet dog. "That's not right," he said softly. "I'm glad Drake lets you eat at the table, with a fork and everything."

Hermione had no idea what to say to that, so she merely nodded.

The remainder of the day passed in a vaguely unpleasant blur. Malfoy kept her by his side through his classes, ostentatiously ordering her to take good notes and to refrain from raising her hand, but generally behaved himself in History of Magic, where he wrote a letter to his mum, and Charms, where the Ministry had sent a colorless witch to teach the class in Professor Flitwick's absence.

"Do you know what happened to Professor Flitwick?" Hermione whispered to Malfoy.

"I didn't see him hanging in the Great Hall, so I assumed he escaped," he replied, with no hint in voice as to whether he thought that was a good or a bad thing. "Now pay attention - I'll need to know this charm for my NEWTs."

Transfiguration was Malfoy's last class of the day. Just before they reached the classroom, he pulled her into a secluded little nook behind a suit of armor. "Blaise, go on ahead. We'll meet you there," Malfoy said, over his shoulder, pressing Hermione up against the stone wall.

"Really, Draco, can't you restrain yourself from molesting your Mudblood for another hour?" Zabini rolled his eyes. "It's disgusting."

Malfoy made a rude gesture at his fellow Slytherin with one hand. "I didn't invite you to watch, tosser."

As soon as Zabini turned away, Malfoy stepped back slightly, but still stood close enough that she could read his lips in the dim alcove. "Don't try to speak with McGonagall in Transfiguration," he warned. "You'll only make it worse for her."

"She's alive?" Hermione asked, not quite daring to hope.

Malfoy nodded. "She is, just under more restrictions than before."

"Restrictions?" Hermione asked suspiciously.

"The Dark Lord was merciful to let her live, Granger," Malfoy said harshly. "Try to remind yourself of that, and that McGonagall already survived eight months at Hogwarts with a Death Eater as headmaster."

Hermione tried to remind herself of those things during Transfiguration, but it took Malfoy's restraining hand on her knee to keep from jumping out of her seat and ripping the heavy iron collar off Professor McGonagall's neck. The elderly teacher was uncharacteristically slumped over, from a combination of fatigue and despair, and Hermione could see the collar choking her every time she deviated in the slightest from her lesson plans. It tightened even when Professor McGonagall dared to meet Hermione's eyes, the two witches exchanging glances of mutual concern.

As soon as class was done, Malfoy hustled her out of the classroom and into the Great Hall for an early dinner. Hermione picked at her food, conscious of the stares and whispers. Seated at the Slytherin table with her distinctive hair pulled back into a french braid, she had passed largely unnoticed at breakfast and lunch, but the Hogwarts rumor mill had begun to spin as she attended classes throughout the day. She knew people were saying that she had whored herself out - or worse, sold Harry out - in order to obtain Malfoy's protection, and the stupid, blind maliciousness behind those rumors made her hunch her shoulders defensively.

Of course, Malfoy noticed. "Chin up, Granger," he directed. "You may be a Muggleborn and a slave, but you're a skilled witch and a _Malfoy_ slave. That makes you better than most of the half-blooded baboons running around this castle waving sticks at each other." He sneered derisively at the other House tables, not bothering to hide his disdain for at least three-quarters of the school. " _Nolite te bastardes carborundorum_ , lioness."

"Is that an order, Malfoy?" she challenged.

"Only if you wish it to be, pet," he answered infuriatingly.

She shook her head slightly but squared her shoulders, giving a defiant look around the Great Hall.

"Now, as soon as you finish your pudding, we'll go to the library so you can get started on my independent study project for Divination," Malfoy continued. "Goyle, you're coming with us. You need to get your Charms mark up."

Hermione had to admit to herself that Malfoy's casual announcement and invitation to his henchman to join them in the library both were good ways of deflecting any suspicion. Ostensibly, she would be researching wizards born under the sign of Leo and whether they matched the traits attributed to them by astrologers, when really it was just a cover story to compile a list of wizards born at the end of July who met the fuzzy criteria of the prophecy. Needless to say, Malfoy was not enamored about the prospect of Neville as the Chosen One, believing him to be too rash and not clever or powerful enough to defeat the Dark Lord.

In the library, Neville seemed determined to reinforce Malfoy's misgivings, making his way over to their table shortly before curfew with a stiff-legged belligerence that failed to hide his nervousness.

"I'd like a word with Hermione, Malfoy," he demanded, shifting from one foot to the other.

"She speaks for herself," Malfoy drawled.

"I _would_ like to speak with Neville," Hermione said softly, trying to defuse the tension. She needed Malfoy and Neville to find some way to work together with her, though they would never be a tight trio like she had been with Harry and Ron.

"Alone, without any snakes," Neville specified. He glared at Malfoy, but dropped his gaze from the other wizard's hard grey eyes.

"Subtle. Very subtle, Longbottom." Malfoy turned to Hermione. "I need to go to the Owlery anyways to send a letter. I'll give you fifteen minutes, but then Goyle and I will come back and fetch you."

"Thank you, Malfoy," Hermione agreed, relieved that he was being mature about this and not trying to provoke Neville.

Her relief was premature. "I was hoping for a more tangible token of your gratitude, Granger," the prat smirked, leaning over her.

She opened her mouth to warn him off, and he took swift advantage, swooping in to kiss her. Malfoy had her pressed back in her chair, both of his hands skimming down Pansy's purloined cashmere jumper, his tongue snaking into her mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw that Neville had drawn his wand and looked homicidal.

She wrenched her mouth away from Malfoy's. "Draco, please stop," she said, using their safe phrase. Since she never used his given name, that was his signal to stop.

He pulled away, cheeks faintly flushed and his normally sleek hair tousled. Hermione thought it was a good look on him, and then turned beet-red as she realized her hands had been tangled in Malfoy's white-blond hair as he kissed her.

"For now, Granger," he said, pulling away with reluctance. "But remember what I said about impetuous lions - and lionesses."

 **A/N: Draco's dog Latin translates to "don't let the bastards grind you down." I used the variation from Margaret Atwood's** ** _The Handmaid's Tale_** **, because it seemed fitting.**


	27. Neville Gets Some Answers

**_May 4, 1998 - continued_**

The Ferret had warned him. He had told Neville he controlled Hermione, body and mind. Neville thought Malfoy was delusional, until he proved his point by snogging Hermione in front of his eyes, a sight that made Neville want to retch.

It was not the snogging itself that disgusted him - Neville was no prude, nor was he a hypocrite. He personally had done the same with Hannah in secluded nooks of the library, which was even more popular than the windy Astronomy Tower for student trysts, especially in the winter months. He also was not surprised to see Malfoy forcing himself on Hermione, not after what Neville had witnessed in the Great Hall. No, what made him feel ill was that Hermione did not fight the kiss. Instead, she was an active participant, running her hands through Malfoy's hair and pressing herself up against his chest.

Without even thinking about it, Neville went for his wand. He wanted to see Malfoy screaming in pain on the floor, but could not come up with a vicious enough spell to use with the heavy restrictions on his magic.

"Draco, please stop," Hermione begged, pulling away from the blond.

Malfoy desisted with a smirk. "For now, Granger."

Neville tensed at the dark promise in those words, knowing he could not protect Hermione, not now and certainly not later in the night when she was alone with Malfoy.

"But remember what I said about impetuous lions - and lionesses," Malfoy added, still leaning over Hermione, far too close in Neville's opinion.

She looked annoyed at Malfoy's cryptic reminder, but nodded slightly. As he walked away, Goyle trailing behind, her eyes never left the blond Slytherin.

"So you call him Draco now?" Neville asked, trying to keep any censure out of his voice.

"Not usually," Hermione muttered, snapping her attention back to him. With her cheeks red, she looked flustered and more than a bit ashamed of herself.

"I can't believe you let him touch you like that, after what he did to you!" Neville burst out, unable to contain himself.

Hermione glared at him, arms crossed. "Try not to judge me for the brand on my back and I'll try to do the same for the one on your arm," she snapped.

She had a point. "I'm sorry, Hermione," Neville apologized after a moment. "How are you holding up?"

"I'm fine, Nev," she said bravely. "Malfoy isn't so bad."

He snorted. "Yeah, I'm sure he's a great guy when he's not attacking you in broom closets."

"He . . . he could have done a lot worse," Hermione stuttered. "He doesn't hit me, and he won't share me."

"Yeah, because he's a selfish prick," Neville said dismissively. "You don't have to make excuses for him."

"Really, Malfoy mainly just has me doing his homework," Hermione said earnestly. She smiled, a bit forced. "Just like I used to do for Harry and Ron."

He picked up her right hand, gently running a thumb over the bruises around her wrist. "Malfoy's _nothing_ like them. You're my oldest friend, Hermione. I want to kill him for what he did to you - for what he's still doing to you."

She just shook her head, saying nothing.

He caught sight of his own name on the parchment in front of Hermione. "What's this?" he asked curiously, looking at the long list of wizards. Some names had been crossed out, while others had tick marks next to them. A few of the names were familiar to him, in addition to his own: Albus Dumbledore, Viktor Krum, Harry Potter, and Kingsley Shacklebolt, whose mum was friends with Neville's Gran.

"Malfoy's Divination project," she replied. "Homework, like I said. He wants me to find examples of wizards born under the sign of Leo, to see if they show the expected traits according to astrologers."

"What, bravery and power? Leadership? Guess I was born under the wrong sign," Neville commented, trying not to sound bitter. He knew he had always been a follower, a chubby little Gryffindork tag-along with barely enough magic to scrape through classes that did but involve plants. Even his own family had thought he was a Squib.

"Bollocks," Hermione said, crashing his pity party. "You led the D.A. all year. You're a powerful and talented wizard with the proper wand in your hand. And remember what Dumbledore said back in first year? There are all kinds of bravery, Neville, and you are one of the bravest wizards I know."

"Thanks, Hermione," he mumbled. There was no point in contradicting her obvious sincerity, though he felt like a bloody useless coward these days.

"Anyhow, given who is on this list, Malfoy probably will prefer to highlight the negative traits, for political reasons if nothing else," she added. "Leos can be obstinate, melodramatic, and prone to leap into danger without thinking of the consequences." She looked so sad that Neville just knew she was thinking about Harry. He squeezed her hand in comfort.

"Sounds like every Gryffindor I know," Neville said, trying to lighten the mood.

It failed.

"Promise me you won't try to kill Malfoy," Hermione asked, brown eyes intent as she laid her other hand on top of his. "If you succeed, the Dark Lord would just pass me on to another Death Eater who would be worse. And if you fail . . . it would be terrible for everyone."

Neville had the sense there was something important she wanted to say, but had been unable to force out. Then it clicked. Hannah and his Gran and a few others would be sad if he were killed or sent to Azkaban for trying to murder the Ferret, but the only way it would be terrible for _everyone_ in the wizarding world would be if Harry was correct in thinking Neville might be a substitute Chosen One.

"Is this about the prophecy, about the one with the power to destroy Voldemort?" he asked. "Harry told me some of it when I saw him on the battlefield."

From the way her brow furrowed, and her mouth opened and shut, it looked like Hermione was fighting against Malfoy's compulsions. "Ask me what you need to know. I'll try to answer. But I first need your promise you won't try to kill or hurt Malfoy. I'm not asking for him, Nev, I'm asking for me. Trust me on this, _please_."

"You're the brightest witch of our age, Hermione. Of course I trust you." Even if he did think her judgement was horribly compromised when it came to the Ferret.

"But do you promise?" she persisted.

"I promise I won't do anything to harm Malfoy while the Dark Lord lives," Neville promised, grudgingly. "Now, Harry said you know the exact wording of the prophecy. Could you tell me?" he asked.

Hermione smiled in relief, both at the promise given and a question she could answer. She cast a _Muffliato_ so no one could overhear - Neville watched enviously, since his own wand was restricted to textbook spells and his dad's wand had been confiscated - and then she repeated the prophecy, word for word.

"Yeah, it could be me," Neville agreed, once she was done. "I don't know any specifics, but from what Gran tells me, my mum and dad were crazy brave. They defied Voldemort and his Death Eaters at least three times apiece."

Thoughtfully, he ran a finger along the reddened skin at his hairline, where he had been burned by the flaming Sorting Hat. "I dunno if Voldy meant to mark me as an equal, though. I think he was just trying to torture me."

Hermione shrugged. "Prophecies are always open to interpretation."

"What do you think is this power the Dark Lord doesn't know about?" Neville wondered.

"Good question. Dumbledore told Harry he thought it was love." Hermione gave a skeptical shrug.

"That didn't turn out so well for Harry," Neville observed, morosely.

"Dumbledore also was a puppet master who knew just how to tug on people's strings," Hermione said, with a cynicism that Neville hoped had not rubbed off on her from Malfoy. "He left me a copy of the _Tales of Beedle the Bard_ to puzzle over the runes, to see if I could find that unknown power in a fairy tale."

"Do you think I'm the Chosen One?" Neville asked directly.

"I can't say," Hermione say, giving him a look. "I _can't_ say," she repeated.

"Oh," Neville said, with understanding dawning. "Did Malfoy say you weren't allowed to tell me?"

Hermione compressed her lips in frustration. "Ask me something else," she gritted out.

Neville wracked his brain for a question Hermione would be allowed to answer. "How does your brand work?" he tried, hoping that was general enough.

"It's strong. Stronger than Malfoy's Imperius, because I can fight that off but I can't fight this when he gives me a direct order," Hermione stated.

Neville was impressed that she could fight off the Imperius Curse. Malfoy might not have taken his NEWTs yet, but he was quite adept at that particular Unforgivable, even for a Death Eater. Hermione was one powerful witch.

"I can ignore his implicit orders or other things he wants," she continued, unaccountably blushing, "but it takes a lot of concentration and will give me an awful headache if I try to keep it up too long. And otherwise, I can act as I normally do."

"So if he hasn't forbidden something, because he doesn't know about it, you still could do it?" Neville asked.

"Yes. He doesn't control everything I do," Hermione confirmed.

Neville looked at the clock. Their fifteen minutes nearly were up, and there was someplace he needed to be. "Let me walk you out," he suggested, pushing back his chair.

"Hannah?" Hermione accurately guessed, as she gathered up Malfoy's homework and tucked it into an already-bulging bag.

"Spot on. We always meet in Greenhouse Four around this time. Even when I was hiding in the Room of Requirement, I would always Disillusion myself and sneak down to see her," Neville said, with a reminiscent smile.

"Well, go and see her now," Hermione urged, with a hint of her old bossiness, as they walked towards the library entrance. "She needs you."

Malfoy was waiting, one foot tapping with impatience. "You're very nearly late," he snapped at Hermione.

"Sorry, Malfoy," she apologized, ducking her head in submission. "Good night, Neville," she added.

"It's time for bed, Granger," the blond smirked, grabbing her wrist and tugging her to his side. "Sweet dreams, Longbottom."

Neville fought the urge to hex him as Malfoy walked away, guiding Hermione with a possessive hand low on her back. Still, Neville refrained, having given his word. As soon as they turned the corner, he ducked into an alcove and pulled Harry's Invisibility Cloak over his head, making sure his feet were covered.

With the protection of total invisibility, Neville made it down the Herbology greenhouses without incident. Greenhouse Four was dark, but he knew it well and made his way down the earthen aisle to the secluded corner guarded by a large Fanged Geranium, inhaling the relaxing scent of rich earth mingled with the astringent, herbal smell of the magical plants. He murmured a greeting to the geranium, absently stroking one of its defanged leaves.

"Who's there?" Hannah asked in a frightened voice.

"It's just me," Neville said soothingly. " _Lumos_."

By the light of his wand, Neville saw his girlfriend up close for the first time since the Final Battle and revel celebrating the defeat of the Light. Hannah was shivering and bruised, huddled into herself on the ground, wearing a skimpy nightgown that barely covered her nipples and showcased the imprints of teeth on her upper breasts. Neville contrasted her appearance with that of Hermione, neat and prim in her Hogwarts uniform, brown eyes bright as she studied diligently in the library. Suddenly, Hermione's protectiveness towards Malfoy made much more sense, given how the Ferret was protecting her.

"Oh, Hannah," Neville said helplessly, hiding the impotent rage he felt towards Amycus Carrow. From her appearance and how she flinched like a beaten puppy, it was clear she needed gentle handling. "Here, take my robes, luv." Even as he spoke, he was draping them over her shoulders.

" _He_ told me I have to wear this," Hannah said, plucking at the cheap fabric of the nightgown with a hand that shook from fear as well as cold.

"You're still wearing it," Neville reassured her. "Carrow hasn't prohibited you from wearing something over it, has he?"

"No," Hannah said, slowly shaking her head.

"Then it's fine to wear my robes over your nightgown for a little bit," Neville coaxed, remembering what Hermione said about how the slave brand worked. "You can take them off before you go back inside."

"Okay," Hannah acquiesced.

Neville settled inside beside her on the ground, close but not touching. He was not sure how Hannah would react, after what she had been through. "I'm glad you're here," he said softly. "I'm so glad to see you."

"Oh, Nev!" Hannah cried, flinging herself into his arms. "I thought you'd hate me for everything I've done. Amycus said you - "

"Carrow is a liar," Neville interrupted, holding her tight. "I _love_ you, and I could never hate you. Especially not for things that he did to you, or that you had to do to keep from getting hurt even worse."

Hannah was crying now, and Neville gently wiped the tears away with the pad of his thumb. "My shoulder is always here if you need to cry on it," he offered. He did not, however, ask how Carrow was treating her, or how she was holding up under that treatment. It was all too obvious.

Neville also did not want to take a chance that Hannah, due to the Dark magic that bound her to Carrow, would try to extract a promise that he would not hurt her master, like Hermione had done. The new headmaster was a dead man walking, so far as Neville was concerned. It did not matter that his wand was restricted, since he was going to stalk the man while wearing Harry's Cloak and kill him with his bare hands.

Hannah snuggled in more closely, now squarely on his lap, and Neville felt the familiar pull of attraction towards his girlfriend. He inhaled deeply and kissed the side of her neck, avoiding the marks Carrow had left. She clung to him more tightly, but when he angled his lips over hers, she wrenched her mouth away.

"You don't want to kiss me," Hannah warned. "You don't know where my mouth has been."

"I don't care, luv," Neville said, but his girlfriend was once again crying.

"Just hold me, please," she asked, as sobs that wracked her entire body.

His voice cracked as he held her. "I'm sorry, Hannah. I'm so, so sorry. It's my fault Carrow is treating you like this. I should have protected you better. All of you." He felt personally responsible for each of the D.A. members killed or injured in battle, and thought he probably always would. But the torment Hannah was suffering because she was his girlfriend was a whole different type of hell.

"Don't you dare blame yourself, Neville Frank Longbottom," Hannah said with a sudden fierceness, swiping the tears away. Her eyes were watery but her face was determined. "It's going to be okay. We'll get through this, together. This will be over and things _will_ get better."

"How can you possibly say that?" Neville asked incredulously, holding her tight, amazed at Hannah's loyalty and strength, that she could be so battered but not broken. "Things can't possibly get any worse - is that what you're thinking?"

Hannah shook her head. "I know it's always darkest before dawn and all that, but that's not what I meant. I love you, and I have faith in you, and no Death Eater can take that away from me."

For the first time in days, Neville felt the tiniest bit of optimism, a tiny flame flickering in the darkness. "I love you, too, and I'll never stop believing in you."

Hannah squeezed his hand and looked up at him with a sad smile that twisted his heart.

"I need to get back before I'm missed," she said reluctantly. Just as reluctantly, Neville helped her to her feet. Hannah rose to her tiptoes, her lips brushing against his cheek. "Never forget - so long as there's life, there's hope."

Long after she had gone, Neville stayed in the greenhouse, staring blankly into the darkness, trying to hold on to Hannah's hope.


	28. Percy's Typical Monday

**_May 4, 1998 - continued_**

When Percy went back to work on Monday, he was surprised at just how _ordinary_ everything seemed.

He arrived before eight in the morning, as usual, exchanging nods with the guards and other early arrivals in the Ministry lobby. To his surprise, the Unforgivables on his wand did not even cause a ping during the security scan of his wand. Once in his small but impeccably tidy office, Percy efficiently dispatched the contents of his in-box, as he did at the start of every work day. Throughout the morning, he drafted memos with his typical degree of precision and then sent them flying away to other departments. And he attended two meetings before lunchtime, which were dull as they generally were. Pius Thicknesse presided over one of them, his usual jovial and slightly bumbling self. There was no hint of the vicious Death Eater who obtained a twisted pleasure in forcing himself on underage girls.

All around the Ministry, in the cafeteria and the break rooms, Percy's co-workers gossiped about the Hogwarts riot, as the battle had been termed. The universal consensus was that Harry Potter had been an unbalanced, emotionally disturbed, and ultimately violent boy.

"Raised by Muggles, you know. Savages, the lot of them, along with their Muggleborn spawn," a pompous wizard from MLE opined. "The lad never really had a chance to be normal."

"I taught Potter, you know," Dolores Umbridge informed a rapt audience at her table in the cafeteria. "I did my best, but even the most _stringent discipline_ failed to have any effect. I knew he'd come to a bad end."

"Dumbledore never could explain to me how my Cedric wound up dead in that Triwizard Tournament," Amos Diggory said, shaking his head in sorrow. "All that I know for certain is that Potter was there."

"He and that Granger girl dragged so many other students down with them in that so-called Dumbledore's Army," Madam Edgecombe sniffed. "Thank Rowena my Marietta got out when she did, even if her pustules are permanent."

"I'm not certain that Amycus Carrow has quite the _credentials_ to be headmaster," another concerned Ravenclaw mother fretted, but was quickly shushed by her friends as Percy walked by. She gave him a frightened look. "Of course, he'll be an excellent disciplinarian. That's what Hogwarts needs, after decades of Dumbledore's laxness."

With a neutral expression on his face, Percy selected a sandwich and an apple, handed over the necessary Sickles and Knuts, and walked out of the cafeteria to eat his lunch in solitude. So, he mused as he ate, this is how the Light was quenched, how wizarding Britain descended into totalitarianism under the rule of a Dark Lord with no one left to challenge him.

"This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang but with a whimper," Percy murmured. It was poet's phrase, learnt in Muggle Studies years ago, and seemed particularly apt in describing the creeping insidiousness of Voldemort's takeover. He turned his attention back to his paperwork, not certain what else he could do.

"Hello? Is anyone here?" a female voice called from the reception area some minutes later, when he was engrossed in a memo on minimum requirements for cauldron thickness.

It was a pet issue of his, with flimsy imports resulting in nasty accidents as they cracked or even exploded while potions were being brewed. His family had thought his concern was laughable, but they had not seen the burn victims on the Artifact Accidents ward at St. Mungo's like he had. Severus Snape, too, had been a major advocate of cauldron safety regulations, having witnessed too many accidents in his Potions classroom over the years. The new headmaster would be much a less useful ally on the issue, as Percy doubted Carrow knew how to use a cauldron other than as a pot to piss in.

"Hello?" the witch in the reception area called again. "Probably all still off at lunch," she said loudly. "Must be a jammy job, working for the Minister."

With a sigh, Percy set down his quill and stood up from his desk, walking out to provide any necessary assistance.

The vaguely familiar witch in the reception area had her arms crossed in annoyance, clutching a sheaf of parchment in one hand. "Finally!" she huffed. "How have you been, Percy?"

"Well, thank you. May I help you?" Percy asked stiffly.

He took a closer look to see if he recognized her, since she clearly knew who he was. Medium height, medium build, wavy, shoulder-length hair that was either ashy blonde or light brown depending on the light. The most remarkable thing about the witch was her eyes, partially hidden behind her spectacles. They were such a dark blue as to be almost a perfect match for her tailored navy robes, framed with thick, dark eyelashes. Percy thought she had been a Ravenclaw prefect, a year or two behind him at Hogwarts, but he could not recall her name. Amy, or maybe Avery. Something like that. Penelope would have known, since she had a gift for remembering names, even of those who were not in her own House or potential stepping stones.

"I certainly hope you can help me! How hard can it be to get a signature around here?" Amy or Avery asked rhetorically.

"That depends upon the nature of the document you wish to have signed," came Percy's dry response. "May I see?"

"Certainly," she said, handing over the papers readily enough. "I'm Audrey Selwyn, by the way, since you don't seem to quite remember who I am."

"Of course I do," Percy bluffed. "Ravenclaw, class of '94. You were a prefect."

"Head Girl, too, though that was after your time," Audrey added with pride.

"Congratulations," Percy said with a small smile.

"My father and brother also are colleagues of yours."

Percy gave her a sharp look at that, but the reflection of the overhead lights on her spectacles made it impossible to read her eyes and interpret what she meant by divulging her Death Eater connections.

"Ah, I see," he said, although he really had no idea how to take that comment. Turning his attention to the papers, he saw they were routine permits to allow a group of thirty Romany to travel from wizarding Britain by Portkey to attend a clan gathering in the Transylvanian Alps. While that was innocuous enough, their listed destination was the town of Petrila. Percy's eyes narrowed in thought. It just so happened that he had been to Petrila, as it was the nearest town to the Romanian Dragon Sanctuary where his brother Charlie worked.

"You're in the Department of Magical Transportation, aren't you?" Percy asked.

"I am," Audrey confirmed.

"You don't need the approval of the Minister's office for a Portkey application," he stated.

"Not usually," she agreed. "However, Madam Edgecombe was concerned that this group of travelers might include some Undesirables trying to sneak out of the country, so she wants the Minister's office to sign off on the permits. I told her it was absurd, since this request has been pending for a month, but she insisted."

Percy's eyes snapped the date at the upper left corner of the document. April 5, nearly a month prior, the numbers divided by neat slash marks. "Did you check the date for tampering?" he asked.

"Of course," Audrey answered, sounding vaguely annoyed that he was questioning her competence. "It's genuine, but check it yourself if you wish."

Percy did. The parchment utilized for permit applications by Magical Transportation and other Ministry departments was charmed so that truthful information had to be provided when filling out the forms, but there were counter-charms that could be used to alter documents once they were completed. Here, the numbers remained in order, showing no one had used a Transposition Charm to alter the date. However, it was possible the form had been filled out by an American wizard or witch, would who place the month before the day, rather than writing the day, month and year in a sensible sequence.

"It seems straightforward enough to me," Percy opined, keeping that possibility to himself. "How is it that this has gone unapproved for a month?"

"Because in my job I am surrounded by idiots!" Audrey lamented.

Percy nodded in commiseration. He knew that feeling _very_ well.

"The application was buried in Marietta's in-box. She called in sick today, so I checked to see if anything urgent had come in and found _this_ ," Audrey gestured to the application. "It's butting right up to our thirty-day deadline, but Madam Edgecombe couldn't possibly accept that her daughter is a lazy cow who doesn't get her job done, so she's concocted some absurd theory that this was left on Marietta's desk over the weekend by some Potter sympathizer."

"I see," Percy said again. It would be a brazen thing to attempt. On the other hand, the Order probably would have the best chance of getting Ministry approval now, before the dust from the battle at Hogwarts settled and the Death Eaters fully consolidated their control over the Ministry.

Audrey rolled her eyes. "It's the stupidest thing I've ever heard at the office, and that's saying a great deal. I've thoroughly checked it against the list of criminals MLE put out this morning, as well as the roll maintained by the Muggleborn Registration Commission, and there are no matches."

Percy flipped through the parchment. There were no names he recognized as family, friends, or members of the Order of the Phoenix on the first page, but a name on the second page caught his eye. Percy was gifted with anagrams, and readily unscrambled Mirolda Naev to Romilda Vane, a dark-eyed girl who had been shockingly forward for a first year when he was Head Boy. She also was part-Romany - had even cheekily grabbed his hand one night and offered to read his palm - and Percy supposed that some of the non-magical folk on the list were her relatives. He suspected, however, that if he took the time to play word games or cast a charm to translate Romanian to English, he would find several more names that matched up with the Ministry-maintained lists Audrey had checked, like Meda Noduri and her grandson Eduard Delup, an orphaned infant according to the application.

And when he reached the third page, he knew exactly who Penelope Apa Limpede was, and that she was the one who had come up with the false names on the travel permits. Right before the Muggleborn Registration Commission had taken effect, he and his then-girlfriend had had a very serious conversation where he had warned her what was coming and explained the many ways in which Ministry documents could be altered without detection. One could provide a nickname, a translation of their real name into another language, or rearrange the letters, and it would not trigger any of the charms imbued in the Ministry parchment to detect fraud. Percy had offered to make it seem that one of Penny's grandmothers was a Prewett Squib who had gone to live in the Muggle world. The conversation had turned into a heated row when Penny had refused to pretend she was something other than a Muggleborn witch. In frustration and fear for her safety, Percy had snapped that she was behaving with extreme stupidity for a 'Claw, and Penny had shot back that he was an unconscionable coward for a Gryffindor. Then she had broken up with him and disappeared into whatever underground attempted to protect Muggleborns from Snatchers and the Ministry alike.

"Are you quite certain there are no Undesirables on this application?" Percy asked Audrey, looking her in the eye and wishing, not for the first time, that Legilemency could be learnt from books.

"I would bet my life on it," Audrey said with quiet vehemence, meeting his gaze.

Percy thought he read the message in her dark blue eyes correctly, and hoped he was right. If he was wrong, he was about to place a losing bet on his own life, and anyone of the Dark Lord's minions would be happy to cash in his chips. He sighed and shook his head.

"I can't sign this," he said, adopting his most officious voice.

For just a second, Audrey's calm mask slipped, but she recovered quickly. "Well, then, I'll just have to find someone who has the authority to do so," she said haughtily.

Percy cleared his throat, regaining her attention she turned to go. "This application should be signed by Madam Edgecombe. It's her department, and that is the standard protocol. Anything else would be unnecessary and unusual for such a _routine_ document."

"Of course," Audrey said, with a tiny nod.

"I'm far too busy handling my own work to take on responsibilities that properly belong to another department," Percy continued in a pompous tone. "However, I will accompany you to the Department of Magical Transportation and ensure that she does sign it." That way, his name would not be on the approval if anyone ever had occasion to check. He might even Obliviate Madam Edgecombe while he was there, to cover his tracks completely.

"Thank you, Percy. I truly do appreciate your help." Audrey said with real sincerity.

"It's nothing," he waved it off, even as the knot in his stomach unfurled. It seemed he had read her correctly, after all, and her clear-eyed intelligence trumped her family's blood supremacist ideology. "I'm just getting your boss to do her job."

Audrey laughed. "That's quite a difficult task! Perhaps I could treat you to tea afterwards?" she invited.

"I would like that," he said, offering her a genuine smile.

She nudged his shoulder with her own and grinned up at him as they walked out towards the lifts. "Percy, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."

 **A/N: Audrey quotes** ** _Casablanca (_** **assume she learned it in Muggle Studies, where Percy was similarly exposed to T.S. Eliot).**


	29. Theo Is Given a Task

**_May 9, 1998_**

Theo carefully picked his way through the rocky beach, following Luna toward the water's edge. The smooth, round stones were treacherous underfoot, but Luna seemed to float above the shingle, sure-footed even with her eyes drawn to the line on the horizon where the sea and sky merged.

Ronald Weasley emerged from Shell Cottage and broke into a jog to catch up, stumbling and stomping his way through the stones. "Bloody hell!" he swore, as he stubbed his toe on an especially pointy one. "Oi, Luna! Wait up! You know you're not supposed to be alone with the Death Eater. And don't take him too close to the boundary wards, or he'll slither across them and away!"

Luna blithely ignored him, paying the yelling ginger no more heed than the shrieking shorebirds wheeling above. She cast a waterproof Cushioning Charm on the ground and sank down, gracefully arranging her gauzy skirt and removing her incongruous Muggle combat boots to allow her toes to be tickled by the incoming waves.

She looked up at Theo. "Please, sit with me," she invited, patting the spot next to her.

Theo did as requested, happy to be out of the stifling cottage, filled as it was with too many angry and mourning redheads eager to deflect their grief into him. He pulled his knees up, keeping his long legs clear of the water, and breathed in deeply, inhaling the salt air and Luna's bluebell perfume.

"Are you worried about the Order meeting?" she asked, her blue eyes meeting his with an uncanny directness. The girl was not a Legilemens - Theo felt no sensation of intrusion in the back of his mind - but there was something about her that made him want to tell the truth. He was _terrified_ about the meeting of the Order of the Phoenix - what remained of it - that was being convened later that evening. Bill Weasley had grimly informed Theo that his attendance was mandatory.

"Yes," he admitted. "They are my enemies. My value to them is limited to this little black stone, which I haven't even figured out how to use." Theo's eyes were drawn to it, set in the ring on his finger. Using Luna's wand, he had tried every opening charm and spell that he knew, but nothing had worked. "I don't understand why they wouldn't just kill me and take it."

"Because we're not a bunch of murdering Death Eaters?" Weasley suggested from behind them, having finally caught up. "We're the good guys!"

Luna shook her head slowly. "Good people will kill for the right reasons. Or a powerful enough incentive. I suppose it's all a matter of perspective."

Theo stayed silent, but he thought she had the better half of the argument. He would have added that he had no reason to think the entirety of the Order was comprised of good people, but he did not wish to set Weasley off on another one of his tirades.

Luna reached over to pat his knee in reassurance. "None of us in the Order want the Resurrection Stone, Theo, because it's more dangerous to its owner than to anyone else. There's a terrible temptation in seeing someone you loved come back through the Veil, to leave this world and join them."

Theo could see that, particularly if the person had died recently enough for the loss to still be raw. In a way, he was fortunate that he had lost his mother at such a young age. His memories of her were misty and the sense of loss had faded over the years. While he was curious to see her, he was not desperate.

"Oh, I dunno," Ron said carelessly. "I would want to do it, just to say a proper good-bye to Harry, and my parents and Fred. And Hermione," he added as an afterthought.

"I don't believe she's dead," Luna said quietly.

"Merlin's hairy arse! We've been over this a dozen times, Luna," Ron said in exasperation. "Hermione hasn't responded to any of the messages we sent to her D.A. Galleon and she hasn't sent a Patronus. The battle was a week ago. If she was alive, we would have heard from her by now."

"I'm sure Hermione's alive," Luna serenely contradicted the redhead. "I would feel different somehow if she had died. Like there was less rationality in the world."

As Ron made a rude, scoffing sound, Theo felt compelled to come to Luna's defense, even though he thought it more likely than not that Granger had not survived the battle at Hogwarts or its immediate aftermath.

"She might be a prisoner," he suggested quietly. "She wouldn't be able to send a Patronus, not without her wand." Theo had observed the steady stream of silvery animals streaking in and out of Shell Cottage bearing messages - incredibly useful, and it made him wish he could cast the Patronus Charm - and he knew Granger's otter had not been among them.

Luna smiled. "I'll keep sending her messages, then. Hermione's very clever - even if she's a prisoner, she'll figure out some way to respond."

Weasley, however, looked horrified, his freckles in stark relief on his pale face as he loomed over them. "She'd be better off dead, with what they'll do to her," he said bleakly. "Have done, probably."

"That's for her to decide, not you," Luna said with unusual sharpness.

"I never should have left her behind," Weasley moaned.

"Probably not, but what's done is done," Luna said with a philosophical shrug. "You showed a surprising sense of self-preservation, but that's not a terrible thing."

Theo hid a smile. Weasley looked positively revolted at having displayed such a Slytherin trait.

Luna cocked her head to one side, reminding Theo of a robin. "I don't think Hermione's your true love, though, Ronald. Then you never could have abandoned her."

"You're right, Luna. I think I might be in love with someone else." Ron gave her a sincere, melting look that made Theo want to clench his hands into fists and pummel the Weasel's stupid, freckled face, even though he usually preferred to rely on brains over brawn.

"It's wrackspurt mating season. That's probably why you feel that way," Luna concluded, after a moment's clinical examination of the gangly redhead. "It should pass once we get to June."

Theo laughed out loud, in mingled amusement and relief.

"Shut it, you Death Eater prick!" Weasley glared at him. "I told you not to make fun of Luna!"

"I'm laughing at you, not her," Theo said, still chortling. "Luna's brilliant."

Ron pulled his wand. "I don't know what you're playing at, but - "

"Put that away, Ronald," Bill Weasley said, stalking towards them with an uncanny quietness. Theo chalked it up to the lupine influence.

"It's time to go," Bill announced.

"To the Hollow?" asked Luna.

Bill nodded. "I'll Side-Along this one. Ready, Nott?" he asked as a matter of form, since he had already grasped his forearm. Theo's chin still was dipped in a nod when Bill spun in place, triggering the disorienting darkness and squeezing of the Apparition spell.

"Where are we?" Theo asked, staring at the ruined cottage before them. There was a lingering hint of Dark magic and something else, even more ancient and powerful, which made his teeth ache.

"Potter Cottage, in Godric's Hollow," Bill growled at him. Theo did not take it personally - with the full moon only a couple of nights away, Bill was growling and snapping at everyone.

Luna Apparated in with a soft pop and smiled at Theo before wandering away to examine some of the glowing graffiti that wizards and witches had left around the ruins. "I wonder if anyone's written anything new," she said vaguely.

Ron, whose Apparition had been both louder and less graceful, dusted himself off and trotted after her, first giving Theo a nasty look.

"Don't go outside the boundary wards!" Bill warned his brother. "There's a lingering bit of sacrificial magic that makes it safer for us than most places," he explained in response to Theo's questioning look.

A large, dark-skinned man stepped from the shadows, pale wand at the ready. "It's still far from safe, though."

"Kingsley," Bill greeted the man with a firm clasp of the hand.

Peering into the darkness, Theo could make out at least a dozen other cloaked and hooded figures, all with their wand out, wary of a trap. He kept his hands out and visible, not wishing to give anyone an excuse to hex him.

"Weasley," the man named Kingsley acknowledged, his voice deep and slow. He turned intense, dark brown eyes onto Theo. "I thought Nott would be incapacitated by Lily's blood wards. Isn't he Marked?"

"Not anymore. An acromantula got at his Dark Mark during the battle. Physically, it's been chewed off and now it's magically null," Bill explained.

Theo studied the remnants of the wooden plank floor beneath his feet, trying not to look insulted that they were talking about him as thought he was not standing right there.

"From the venom, I presume?" Kingsley inquired.

Bill nodded. "Luna thinks it might work for other Death Eaters, if we developed a potion with the venom as a base. There's a Muggle tool called a syringe we could use to inject it directly into the Dark Mark."

Kingsley glanced over at the blonde girl, tracing a glowing bit of graffiti with a seemingly aimless finger. He looked distinctly skeptical. "Even if Miss Lovegood came up with such a potion, I doubt it would accomplish much. We just would be giving a group of hardened criminals and gleeful sadists free agency, out from under the Dark Bastard's thumb. Most of them aren't like young Nott."

Theo looked up, meeting the dark man's intense gaze.

"Don't look so surprised, Nott," Kingsley laughed gruffly. "I've been an Auror since before you were born, and I can tell you're not a Dark wizard."

"Thank you, sir," Theo said quietly. "I appreciate your ability to grasp nuances."

"I'm certain you do, after a week spent amongst crude Gryffindors," Kingsley said with a sardonic smile. "And Miss Lovegood, of course."

"Your subtle insults are lost on me, Kings," Bill said good-naturedly. "All I know is that you can take a snake out of the dungeon, but you can't take the dungeon out of the snake."

Theo blinked at the intimation that Kingsley, an Order member and Auror, had been in Slytherin.

Once again, Kingsley caught the minute shift in Theo's expression. "I'm a Shacklebolt, Nott. We can trace our magical lineage back further than the Notts, almost as far as the Malfoys. _Of course_ I was Sorted into Slytherin," he proudly confirmed. "However, I have learnt that heritage is not destiny, and so-called purity of blood has nothing to do with magical ability."

Bill nodded in agreement. "Like Dumbledore. Or that half-blood madman who put his Mark on your arm, Theo. He may be insane, but there's no doubt he's powerful."

"It _is_ ironic that the Dark Bastard has a Muggle father," Shacklebolt smirked. "Speaking of which, Xenophilius has that special edition of the _Quibbler_ ready to go. He'll publish it tomorrow, both to maximize readership and because it will be more difficult for the Ministry to seize the newspaper from private homes on a Sunday morning."

Theo thought it was a clever idea. He had found the proofs of the Dark Lord's Muggle parentage that Luna had shown him to be compelling. If that was his reaction - a former Death Eater and the son of one of members of Voldemort's innermost circle - he could only imagine that the average witch or wizard would be persuaded after seeing the evidence of Voldemort's hypocrisy on the front page of a newspaper, even if it was the _Quibbler_.

"That's very good news," Bill said, in a soft growl. "I got an Owl from Charlie. Penny Clearwater's contact in Magical Transportation came through. The refugees arrived safely and have been settled in at the Dragon Reserve, all twenty of them."

"Excellent," Kingsley hissed in soft satisfaction. "Any chance they'll come back to fight for us when the time is right?"

"Some will," Bill said. "Others are too young or too hurt, but those who can wield a wand will be here when we're ready, once we figure out how to kill the Dark One."

"I thought an _Avada_ to the chest would do it," Kingsley grumbled. "Believe me, I meant that Unforgivable."

"He's not immortal, though. He can't be - it's magically impossible," Bill insisted.

"He said he had mastered death, though. Perhaps he has a magical amulet or some cursed object to protect him," Shacklebolt mused.

Theo stayed quiet as a mouse and listened carefully. While there were rumors passed among the rank and file Death Eaters that Voldemort _was_ immortal - after all, he had already been resurrected once - the inner circle spoke in quiet whispers about the objects that prevented their master from passing through the Veil.

"If that's the case, any curse can be broken, given the right knowledge and enough time," Bill said confidently. "But I need to know what I'm dealing with."

Shacklebolt pinned Theo with another intense, dark look, now making him feel like a mouse spotted by a hungry hawk. "That's where you come in, Nott. Bill tells me you have a stone that allows you to bring back the dead."

"I do have the Resurrection Stone," Theo admitted with reluctance, fighting the urge to tuck his hand into his pocket or behind his back.

"Is it a genuine Deathly Hallow?" Kingsley asked, an avaricious gleam in his eyes.

"I believe it to be. The enchantments are old and very strong, like nothing I've ever seen," Bill replied for Theo.

"You'll use it to bring back Albus Dumbledore," Shacklebolt stated. It was an order, not a request. "He can tell us what we need to know to win this war. Nothing's gone right for the Light since he died."

"But I have no idea how the stone even works," Theo protested, aghast at the idea of bringing his murdered headmaster back from the dead. It just seemed _wrong_.

"Then you'd best learn, boy," Kingsley advised, the threat barely concealed by his bright, white smile.


	30. Ginny Plays Dress Up

**_May 10, 1998_**

"What happened to your face?" Trixie asked in alarm as Ginny stormed into the bathroom.

"Rodolphus," she answered succinctly, stripping off the remnants of the traditional black witch's robes she had worn down to breakfast. "That fucker backhanded me. _Tergeo_." Peering into the mirror, she siphoned the blood off her face while reaching for the salve to prevent bruising.

"But why?" the mirror inquired, sounding distressed. "I thought our plan was working, and he'd let up on the brutishness. We even got him to give you back your wand!"

Ginny rolled her beloved oak wand between her fingers. She was not going to think upon what she had done, on the mirror's advice, to induce the Lestrange brothers to return it. _A witch without her wand is no better than a Muggle_ , Trixie had told her, and Ginny had to agree.

"An owl delivered the _Quibbler_ at the breakfast table, with a leading headline about the Dark Lord being a half-blood. Rodolphus was upset when I told him it was true. I _was_ possessed by Tom Riddle's Muggle diary my first year Hogwarts, so that gives me an insight of sorts," Ginny explained.

Trixie was silent for a long moment. "The Dark Lord is a half-Muggle?" she asked with clear disdain, before breaking into peals of laughter so intense that they made the mirror's reflective surface ripple. "Oh, that's a delicious irony!"

That had not quite been the reaction Ginny had expected from the capricious mirror. In all honesty, she had expected Trixie - who was rather a pureblood snob for an inanimate object - to be as outraged as Rodolphus.

"And your dress?" the mirror queried, though with less concern.

"That was Rabastan. He caught me going upstairs to change, said he'd help by taking off my clothes. Disgusting pervert," Ginny said in a flat voice.

Then she smirked, the mirror reflecting her surprisingly smug expression. "Your notion of playing them off each other is a good one. There's a lot of sibling rivalry there."

"Oh?" Trixie asked, inviting Ginny to confide in her.

"Give me a minute to scrub his spunk off me and I'll tell you all about it," she promised.

" _Aguamenti calida_." Ginny pointed her wand at the sink and shower faucets though she wanted to _Avada_ the fixtures, picturing Rodolphus and Rabastan at the other end of her wand. Sadly, even with her wand returned to her, the Lestrange wedding band she could not remove prevented her from using harmful spells on either brother, no matter how much she wanted to.

In the shower, she adjusted the temperature manually, making it even hotter, before efficiently washing herself from head to toe, not wanting any reminder of Rabastan's unwanted attentions as she went about her day. Stepping out of the shower, she wrapped herself in a robe and returned to the mirror.

"After Rodolphus hit me, Rabastan pulled him back when he went to kick me in the stomach," Ginny stated to her reflection.

"That's good," Trixie replied. "But do you think he might be trying to prevent a miscarriage in case you're pregnant? I know it's early days yet, but ..."

" ... but I'm a Weasley and everyone expects me to fall pregnant early and often," Ginny finished. Her monthly was not due for another week, so she kept to herself the secret hope that she was carrying Harry's child, conceived in a desperate, sweet moment of love, rather than the spawn of one of the Lestrange rapists. "Really, I'd rather not talk about it."

"It's not as though Rodolphus and Rabastan have left you alone for even a night," Trixie went on, heedlessly. "Unless they're both shooting blanks, you'll be expecting sooner rather than later."

"Ugh," Ginny said, her face twisting into a grimace of disgust.

"Careful, or your face may freeze that way," Trixie warned teasingly.

"Can we _please_ not talk about it? If I am up the duff, you'll be the first to know, since you'll get an eyeful of me retching into the toilet."

"Charming," Trixie said. Like most magical mirrors, she was capable of being scathingly critical, but she also was more sarcastic than most others in Ginny's experience.

"Then they were fighting - literally screaming at each other, toe to toe - before Rodolphus backed down. He said he'd try to mind his temper around me."

"Excellent," Trixie said, a malicious hiss to her voice. "Maybe you'll manage to get them to kill each other."

"We can only hope. Rabastan also invited me to go flying with him. He seems to think an old man like his brother can't keep me entertained," she reported.

"That _is_ progress," the mirror praised. "Don't try to escape, though. You won't be able cross the Lestrange boundary wards without one of them accompanying you. But the wards will collapse once you've killed them both."

Ginny had to laugh at the mirror's homicidal propensities. Trixie's long-term solutions to Ginny's plight inevitably involved the death of both Lestrange brothers. "Rabastan just might be stupid enough to take me across the wards," she pointed out.

Trixie gave an unladylike snort. "He's thick, but not to that extent! Still, did you accept?"

"Rodolphus said we couldn't go. We're expected at the Notts' for lunch." Ginny frowned as she began charming her bright red hair into an elaborate pile on top of her head, a style that had been popular amongst Muggles ninety years ago and that still was favored by some elderly pureblood witches. She had been looking forward to getting outside and enjoying the freedom of flying, no matter how illusory.

"You'll want a ribbon to charm it all into place," the mirror advised. "Rochelle usually flavored black velvet, which won't look terrible with that ginger mass of yours."

"Of course she did," Ginny muttered. "Nothing but black or green, along with bustles and bloody uncomfortable corsets."

"Don't complain about Madam Lestrange's antiquated fashion sense. It's put Rodolphus right off you, hasn't it?"

At Trixie's suggestion, she had taken to dressing and styling her hair like the Lestrange brothers' late mother, going so far as to have a house-elf raid the dead woman's wardrobe. It worked like a charm in keeping Rodolphus at bay, at least during the daytime.

"Yes, but not Rabastan." Ginny pulled another disgusted face. "I mean, I know the Gaunts and Blacks liked to keep it all in the family, but Rabastan shouldn't be attracted to a woman dressed up like his mum."

"He probably has an Oedipus complex over mummy dearest. Little Rabby always was her favorite. As for the Blacks, they married their cousins. That is not incest," lectured Trixie. "The Gaunts, however . . . ."

Ginny just ignored her, as she sometimes did when the mirror started opining on the old pureblood families, working on the charms to powder her face and subtly darken her eyelashes.

" . . . honestly, Bella would have better off if she'd married a Gryffindor blood traitor like Sirius," Trixie concluded her chattering.

"Hey!" Ginny protested at the implied insult. "And what about poor Sirius? Marriage to that bollocks-shriveling bitch would've been worse than a life sentence in Azkaban."

"Certainly Rodolphus came to think so," the mirror said, with a certain vicious satisfaction.

"Good," Ginny agreed absently, focused on making the elaborate up-do hold.

"Now, there's a thought. Towards the end, he and his brother both were terrified of Bella. We should see if we can find you some of her old clothes. You've got enough to hair to style like she did, perhaps dye it black for effect," Trixie mused.

"It's a good thought," Ginny said, after a moment's pause. Part of her was revolted by the thought of dressing up as the evil, demented Bellatrix, but a larger part would do just about anything to keep the Lestrange brothers at bay. "But not today. I don't think Narcissa would approve if I showed up dressed like her dead sister."

After giving her hair one last critical look, Ginny summoned an antique set of black robes from the bedroom, stepping into them and using a charm to fasten the innumerable jet buttons. She was none too soon.

"Ginevra!" Rodolphus bellowed from the hallway. "Come out right now!"

With a parting wave at the mirror, Ginny walked through the pretty green bedroom to the hall. Rodolphus was hovering in the doorway, which made her suppress a grin. He hated this room, and almost seemed scared to cross the threshold.

"A dozen bedrooms in the house, and you had to pick this one," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, just leave it, Rod," Rabastan advised from over his shoulder. "It's not like the room is going to drive Ginny bat shite crazy."

 _No, I have you two to do that_ , she thought, eyes downcast. She did not think either of the brothers was a Legilemens, but why take the chance? And Rodolphus in particular would not hesitate to slap her around if he read any defiance in her expression.

"Let's go," Rodolphus growled, grabbing Ginny by the upper arm. With no more warning than that, he Disapparated them.

As soon as they landed in an unfamiliar, wood-paneled anteroom, Rodolphus released his grip, smirking as she stumbled. Rabastan, arriving a heartbeat later, frowned at his older brother and offered a hand to assist her to her feet. His frown deepened when Ginny refused to take it.

A crack behind her announced a third arrival in the anteroom, presumably another luncheon guest.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite nephew!" Rodolphus said, sneering.

"Draco's your only nephew," Rabastan noted. "Poncy little shite."

Ginny's eyes narrowed as she turned to face the blond. Malfoy had come alone, leaving Hermione behind at Hogwarts.

"Lestrange. Rabastan. And Madam Lestrange." Malfoy nodded coldly at each of them, a ghost of a smirk crossing his face as Ginny cringed at his form of address.

"What? I'm not your Uncle Roddy anymore?" Rodolphus asked mockingly.

"I'm afraid not, seeing as you were only an uncle by affinity and Aunt Bellatrix is now among the dearly departed," said Malfoy, his sarcasm easily surpassing that of his former uncle by marriage.

"You and Ginevra aren't kissing cousins?" asked Rabastan with a leer.

"No," Malfoy answered repressively. "She and I aren't related."

"How's Potter's Mudblood? Is she as fuckable as she looks?" Rodolphus interjected.

Ginny caught herself listening eagerly, hopeful for some assurance that Hermione was alive and reasonably well.

" _My_ Mudblood?" Malfoy drawled, emphasizing the possessive pronoun. "She's just as filthy as one would expect. Not fit company for a genteel lunch, of course."

"If sirs and miss would come this way, please?" squeaked a house-elf as it popped into the anteroom.

"Filthy, eh? Care to share? Or maybe swap, once Ginevra's breeding?" Rodolphus inquired, crudely.

"No, thank you. I don't care for gingers," Malfoy said haughtily as he walked towards the door, following the elf and clearly seeking to end the conversation. Ginny was too relieved to be insulted.

"But would you share your Mudblood?" Rabastan persisted, catching up to Malfoy in the wide hallway and picking up where his brother had left off. "Or lend her to us for just a night?"

"It's a pity the Dark Lord rewarded you with such an inferior creature, but there _are_ certain things you can do to her," Rodolphus leered. "Bring your Mudblood bitch over and Rabby and I would be happy to demonstrate."

Ginny felt vaguely nauseous at the expression of anticipation on Rodolphus's bearded face. He and Rabastan were not exactly restrained with her, so her mind balked at what kind of depravities they would attempt with Hermione.

"One night with us, and I promise she'll be docile as a kitten," Rabastan chortled as their group reached the dining room.

"Or addled out of her mind from torture. The answer is _no_ ," Malfoy replied firmly. "I'm quite pleased with Granger's present level of docility."

"Selfish little bastard," Rabastan grumbled as they reached the dining room.

"I'm a Malfoy. We don't share." The blond smirked. "On the other hand, if you have a few Galleons to spare, Amycus rents his half-blood slag out by the hour."

"Does he now?" Rabastan responded, his interest piqued. "The blonde with big jugs? We should hire her for a night, Roddy. That would really stick it to Longbottom."

"Her name is Hannah Abbott," Ginny snapped, irate that they were talking about her friends as though they were objects. "And the Muggleborn witch you're so eager to borrow from Malfoy is Hermione Granger."

It backfired. Malfoy merely gave her a bored look, but Rabastan's face lit up with glee. "Don't be jealous, Ginevra. We'll still play with you even if we bring a new toy home."

Ginny looked at him, aghast. Jealousy was the furthest emotion from her mind.

A dry cough from Charlus Nott interrupted them. "Really, is this an appropriate topic for luncheon conversation? Particularly in the presence of ladies?"

Despite towering over their host by a head, the Lestrange brothers looked like abashed schoolboys at the cold reprimand.

"Do come in and be seated," Charlus Nott invited. "Draco, your mother has been quite anxious to see you."

Malfoy nodded and brushed past Charlus, eager to reach his mother. Ginny could see Narcissa seated stiffly at the foot of the long mahogany table, a trembling smile on her face as she saw her son.

"Ginevra, may I escort you?" Charlus asked formally.

Ginny nodded and placed her hand on his arm. She could see age spots on his hands, but the old wizard still radiated a sense of power - like Professor Dumbledore, but darker and more controlled.

Charlus seated her next to Narcissa. Up close, the blonde witch looked terrible, with even carefully applied glamour charms unable to hide the dark circles under her eyes or the unhealthy puffiness of her face.

"Madam Nott," Ginny said politely, offering her hand and trying to hide her shock at the older witch's haggard appearance.

"There's no need to be so formal, Ginny," Narcissa said with a kind smile. "Please, call me Cissy."

She rose from her seat with some difficulty and air-kissed Ginny's cheek. "Then I shan't need to address you as Madam Lestrange," she added in a whisper.

She nodded, feeling her throat tighten at Narcissa's unexpected compassion.

Malfoy had taken the seat on his mother's other side, directly across the table from Ginny. He looked at his mother in surprise. "I had no idea you and the She-Weasel were on such close terms."

"Manners, Draco," Narcissa scolded, as Ginny hid a grin. She would much rather be called by a harmless schoolyard nickname than addressed as Lestrange's wife.

Narcissa gave them both a tiny, tight smile. "I may not know Ginny that well, but I do know this - in times of trouble, we witches must stick together."


	31. Draco Performs a Good Deed (or Two)

**_May 10, 1998_**

With a crack, Draco arrived just outside the main gates of Hogwarts. The wards and physical walls ringing the school had been among the items prioritized by Voldemort for repair. No one could get or out of Hogwarts without permission, but the Dark Mark on Draco's arm provided implicit authorization. The wrought-iron front gates swung open with a wave of his wand.

He stalked across the familiar grounds with a scowl on his face, squinting as rays from the setting sun hit his eyes, aggravating his budding headache. It had been an utterly miserable and interminably long afternoon, bleeding into the evening. Even worse, there was something wrong with his mother, and he had not been given any time alone with her to find out what it was.

Immediately following a lunch filled with numerous awkward silences, his mother had retired to her boudoir with the Weaselette. Draco hoped that Ginny had provided his mother with some comfort, though he thought it more likely had been the other way around. The redhead had looked awful, wearing an ugly dress in the style favored by his great-aunt Walburga, but that had not kept Draco from noticing the way she cringed away from Rodolphus whenever he spoke to her harshly or Rabastan whenever he touched her, which in both cases was inappropriately often.

With the departure of the ladies, Draco had been dragged into the study for a so-called strategy session. That had consisted of his newly-minted stepfather providing some ominous intelligence about the number of resistance cells that had sprung up throughout the U.K. and plans to root them out, while the Lestrange brothers cracked filthy jokes. Charlus had also provided a dry update on some new Ministry edicts that were to be issued soon. Most made Draco's head spin with their sheer stupidity. It was as though the Dark Lord _wanted_ the general wizarding population to rise up and try to overthrow him.

Then there had been the awkward matter of expressing his condolences to Charlus. It was good manners, not to mention good politics, but Theo also had been a friend and Draco truly was sorry he had gone missing during the battle at Hogwarts and now was presumed dead. Numerous attempts by the Dark Lord to summon him through his Dark Mark had yielded no results.

The old wizard had listened to Draco's inadequate words about his son without blinking, like an ancient tortoise, and then briefly inclined his head. "I appreciate the sentiment," he had said. "Please know that I also regret the manner of your father's death."

Only the certainty that his mother would suffer for it kept him from lashing out at Charlus with his magic or his fists. "Cold-blooded fucking bastard. Probably only regrets that he couldn't drag it out more," Draco muttered to himself as he drew closer to the castle. He missed his father every single _fucking_ day.

"Malfoy," a voice hissed from the shadows.

Draco spun around, wand in hand. "Who's there? Show yourself," he demanded.

Ernie Macmillan limped forward, hands held up in surrender. In his left, he clutched a small, purple beaded bag. "I believe you were looking for this," he said quietly, any hint of his former pompousness having been beaten out of him.

"I was," Draco replied. "Where did you find it?"

"In the Great Hall," Macmillan answered with seeming honesty.

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Work crews were finished with the Great Hall a week ago."

"Slave crews, you mean?" the Hufflepuff said bitterly. "We were. I found it then and kept it hidden until now."

Draco held out his hand and Macmillan dropped the bag into his palm. "You'll want to Scourgify it, given where I've been hiding it," he added with a grim smile.

"Death Eaters are required to get their hands dirty," Draco said, unconcerned. "And unlike you, I have regular access to soap and water, as well as a wand."

"Why are giving this to me now?" he asked, curious to know what had inspired Macmillan - who was both a loyal badger and an obstinate Scot - to turn the bag over.

"I don't trust you," Ernie said bluntly, "but I've been watching you. I trust you enough to return Hermione's property to her, for whatever good it might do."

Draco nodded, tightening his grip on the bag. "If I keep Granger happy, she keeps me happy," he said with a lecherous grin for the benefit of an approaching Snatcher. "Getting back her bag with all her girly trinkets should make her _very_ happy."

"Make sure Macmillan gets some extra rations for the week," he offhandedly ordered the Snatcher. "The Dark Lord won't be pleased if you lose a member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight to malnutrition."

Having completed his good deed for the day, Draco set off for his dungeon quarters in a slightly more cheerful frame of mind, despite his concern for his mother.

"Hey, pet, did you miss me?" he asked with a smirk.

"No, prat, I did not," Granger answered back smartly from her seat on the couch. But Draco caught her hiding a smile and she set her book down, so he could tell he had been missed.

"Did you have dinner already?" he asked.

She nodded. "I didn't feel up to braving the dining hall alone, so I had an elf bring me some soup. It's French onion and quite good - there's a bowl for you if you'd like."

Draco frowned. Granger still was far too thin from her months on the run. "You should have asked Goyle to escort you. You need to eat more."

"The elf also brought two slices of chocolate cake. I ate mine, but you can always give me yours," Granger said mischievously.

"You know my weaknesses far too well, witch," Draco joked, feeling some of the day's tension leave him. Taking a seat on the sofa next to her, he started in on his slice of cake.

"Be thankful I can't take advantage of them, Malfoy," she shot back.

He swallowed a bite of chocolate deliciousness and smirked at her. "You can take advantage of me whenever you feel like, lioness."

She flushed and changed the subject, uncomfortable with his flirting. "How was your lunch?"

"Lunch was . . . unpleasant," he answered. "There's something wrong with my mum, but she won't tell me what it is. Oh, and the She-Weasel was there."

"Ginny? How is she?" Granger asked, brown eyes bright with concern.

"Still fighting, from what I could tell," Draco answered vaguely. He saw no reason to alarm Granger by telling her about the redhead's odd dress or her evident fear and loathing for the Lestrange brothers.

"Good," Granger said fiercely. "What about your mother? Is Nott abusing her?"

Draco made a face at her Gryffindor bluntness. "I don't know," he said honestly.

His mother had briefly reappeared to bid him farewell before he left Nott Court. He had asked if she was well, and she had deflected him with a meaningless answer about a "witch's issue," one that he was not to worry about it. Draco had also tried to use Legilemency on her, but his mother's mental shields had been up. Briefly, he summarized this for Granger.

"Could it just be her monthly?" Granger asked. "Some women do have a difficult time of it."

"I know it wasn't that," he replied moodily. "My mother always foregoes dessert, or has a plate of fruit, except for two or three days a month when she would eat something like this." He pointed his fork at the remnants of his chocolate cake. "Otherwise, she would be fine," he continued. "Today, she looked ill, and when I hugged her, she felt swollen."

Granger hesitated, but then spoke. "It's too early for her to be showing any signs of pregnancy, but do you think she might be taking a fertility potion? They have pretty nasty side effects, including bloating and fatigue."

Draco swore and rubbed at his forehead with the heel of his hand. "Fuck, that makes a lot of sense. It almost would be better if Charlus were just beating her."

"How on earth can you say something like that, Draco Malfoy?" Granger scolded. But even as she spoke, she positioned herself behind him and ran her cool fingertips from the center of his forehead to his temples, repeating the light touch until he had closed his eyes and relaxed, fractionally.

"I say that because pregnancy is so hard on witches. It wreaks havoc with their magic, and most can't carry to term. And being pregnant won't protect my mum from Charlus. His first wife was pregnant when she died."

"But he doesn't have an heir now," Granger pointed out pragmatically. "Maybe that gives your mother some measure of protection."

"I hope you're right," he sighed as she shifted her hands to his shoulders and began kneading them with the perfect amount of pressure. "Still, a pregnancy would be risky for my mum, at her age and with her history. My parents married when she was right out of Hogwarts, but I wasn't born until she was twenty-four. I was the lucky seventh child, born after six miscarriages."

"That's horrible! Your poor mother!" Granger said, with surprisingly genuine sympathy for a woman who had stood by and done nothing while she was tortured in her home. Of course, Draco had done the same, yet Granger was presently giving him a blissful massage. He tamped down an uncharacteristic stab of guilt, knowing that it was the brand on her back that made her so attuned to his needs.

"I came early, too, by nearly eight weeks. I spent six of those in St. Mungo's on oxygen before my parents could take me home. I was born when the first wizarding war was raging, so it wasn't really safe for my mum to be outside the Manor, but she never left the hospital," Draco related, as Granger's skillful fingers moved under his shirt and began working out the knots between his shoulder blades.

Abruptly, she stopped. Draco assumed Granger had just realized she was behaving like a good little slave, catering to her master's whims, and braced himself for the witch's righteous anger.

"Malfoy, are you saying your mother's due date was at the end of July?" she asked instead.

"It was," he admitted cautiously, swiveling around to face her. He suspected he knew where she was going with this, and did not like it one bit. "But I was in fact born in the first week of June, so I can't possibly be the child of prophecy. Not to mention that my parents were loyal supporters of the Dark Lord at the time I was born."

Granger looked disappointed. "But the prophecy was made in May, when your mum still was pregnant and due in late July. Maybe Trewlawney's inner eye failed when it came to predicting you'd be born prematurely," she argued. "And the prophecy doesn't specify a timeframe for when the child's parents had to defy Vol- him."

"The prophecy says the one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord _will be born_ as the seventh month dies," Draco stressed, pleased that Granger had caught herself before saying his master's name. "Maybe I was a possibility, but being born in June took me out of the running."

"Perhaps," she demurred, clearly unconvinced.

"Look, I don't like the idea of Longbottom as the Chosen One any more than you do, but I am _not_ a hero. What about that Auror bloke, Shacklebolt?" Draco asked, hopefully.

"His birthday is right, and he was out of the country on an Auror mission and came back in June 1980, so maybe that counts as approaching, but I don't know that his parents ever defied the Dark Lord. The Shacklebolts are an old pureblood family, and so far as I can tell, they just tried to stay out of it," Granger reported. "I only wish we had some way of communicating with people outside of Hogwarts," she added, sounding frustrated.

Draco smirked. "I have something for you that may help with that, right here in my pocket."

Granger's eyes narrowed as she gave a quick, inadvertent glance between his legs. "Malfoy! Is that some sort of crude innuendo?"

"No, no - honestly, it's not!" he protested, with a grin that was far from innocent.

Draco had barely managed to pull the purple beaded bag from his pocket before Granger pounced on him, snatching it from his hand. "You found it!" she squealed, hugging him in her excitement.

"Actually, Macmillan stopped me on the grounds and gave it to me - " Draco said, trying to be fair and to focus on something other Granger's breasts pressed against his chest and the bulge in his trousers that had nothing to do with her precious purple bag and everything to do with being massaged and now embraced by an attractive witch.

Granger made to kiss him on the cheek, a meaningless friendly gesture of affection he had seen her bestow on Potter, Weaselbee, and even Longbottom from time to time. Draco decided he was having none of that, and whipped his head around at the last moment to capture her lips.

Granger jerked back as though he had bitten her - which he had _not_ , though her plump lower lip looked perfect for nibbling upon - and flushed beet red.

"Oh, er, sorry, I didn't mean - "

"Don't apologize," Draco cut through her stammering, shifting to seat her more comfortably on his lap.

She shut her mouth so abruptly that he heard her teeth click. He mentally kicked himself for having phrased that as a command, and vowed to be more careful in speaking with her.

"Hermione, may I kiss you?" he asked softly, nose to nose.

The corners of her mouth turned up in a little smile. "Are you really asking that? You already have my permission to snog and even grope me."

"That's for show. This would be for real," Draco said seriously.

He could practically see the wheels turning in her head, and knew - even before she stiffened and slightly pulled away - that her answer was going to be _no_.

"Draco, I'm not sure if that would be a good idea right now," Granger said, chewing on her lower lip in her nervousness. "I don't know what I feel about you, and there's so much going on that I don't think we can afford to get distracted, and - "

"You don't have to justify yourself to me, Granger," he said coolly, gathering his pride and pushing her gently off his lap. He shifted slightly, willing his now-embarrassing erection to subside. "Now, what's in that beaded bag of yours that has you so excited?"

"You seem more excited about it than I am," she said dryly, taking her wand and weaving some intricate charm to access her bag.

"Don't blame me for being a bloke," Draco defended himself. "Or posing such a risk of a distraction, due to my incredible good looks and magnetic personality."

She huffed, her arm elbow-deep in the tiny bag. "Can I blame you for being an egotistical prat, instead?"

"Sure," he smirked, regaining some equilibrium and impressed despite himself at Granger's Undetectable Extension Charm. "What exactly do you have stored in there?"

"Oh, bits and bobs. Clothes, books, a basilisk fang, and my D.A. Galleon!" she finished triumphantly, pulling a gold coin out of the depths of the purple bag.


	32. Hermione and the Art of Communication

**_May 10-11, 1998_**

"What exactly do you have stored in there?" asked Malfoy, peering over her shoulder.

In the depths of her purple beaded bag, Hermione's fingers closed on the edge of a coin that was _not_ a Galleon, being just a hair too thin and much too light. Still, she answered with a casualness she was far feeling, not quite able to hide the feeling of triumph surging through her. "Oh, bits and bobs. Clothes, books, a basilisk fang, and my D.A. Galleon!"

The clothes were superfluous, since she doubted Malfoy would agree to having her forego Pansy's fitted uniforms in favor of her ratty old Weasley jumpers and tattered denims. She was thrilled to get back her books, which included much of the library from Grimmauld Place and Dumbledore's copy of _Tales of Beedle the Bard_. The basilisk fang, which she had taken from the Chamber of Secrets after she and Ron had destroyed Hufflepuff's cup, might prove useful if there was another Horcrux out there and she could find it. But for now, the D.A. Galleon was the most valuable thing in her bag - worth more than a thousand real Galleons - because it was going to allow her to open lines of communication to any D.A. members who had survived the battle and still had their charmed coins.

Hermione gave a tiny squeak of excitement - hopefully too soft for Malfoy's sharp ears to catch - when she saw letters running around the rim of the coin, forming a message that was either nonsensical or very, very clever: _HG, where do Crumple-Horned Snorkacks live? Love, LL_.

"What the fuck is a Crumple-Horned Snorkack?" Malfoy asked.

"An imaginary creature that Luna claims can be found in Sweden," Hermiome replied absently. She thought he was taking her rejection rather well, especially given his reputation as the irresistible Slytherin sex god.

"How does it work?" he asked, curious as a cat despite himself. "How can you send messages?"

She grinned at him. Malfoy was reminding her a bit of Prince, the Siamese cat her grandmum had when she was little: snooty, aloof, and quick with his claws, but tremendously affectionate and loyal to the one he deemed "his" person. And on the rare occasions when Prince had missed a jump he expected to make, or otherwise acted in a manner beneath his feline dignity, he simply had carried on as though nothing embarrassing had happened, daring anyone to mention it. Malfoy's response to her polite rejection had so far been quite similar.

"Interlinked Protean charms. It's an improvement on the Dark Mark, actually," Hermione explained. "You can send a message to a specific person or group, or broadcast to everyone who has a charmed Galleon."

"That's brilliant," he praised. She thought Malfoy was being sincere - at least he sounded that way. Or perhaps he was just flattering her in hopes of getting into her knickers. She knew it would not take much on his part to overcome her better judgment. However, she had made that mistake with Ron - jumping into a physical relationship when they should have been focused on defeating Voldemort - and she was trying not to do it again.

"You came up with the charmed Galleons, I presume?" Malfoy asked, elegantly slouched on the couch next to her.

She shrugged, trying to ignore the way his warm presence right at her shoulder made her heartbeat and breathing accelerate. "I did originally, but the messages were limited to just numbers, setting the date and time for D.A. meetings. Then Luna helped me refine it so that messages can be directed to a specific person, and we figured out how to send short messages, based on a new Muggle technology called SMS. It's limited to a hundred characters, though, and it's not secure. It could be anyone with Luna's Galleon, so we need to ask verification questions."

Hermione closed her hand in a fist around the coin and concentrated on the message she wished to send. _LL, nowhere, because they do not exist. Where did you_ _unsuccessfully_ _search for them? Love, HG._

Malfoy snorted in amusement at the message as the letters reformed.

"That should convince Luna it's really me," Hermione said unapologetically, tapping the coin with her wand to send the message. "If it's really her with the other Galleon." She set the Galleon down on the low table before the couch. "I don't want to get burnt. It heats up whenever there's a message, hot enough to feel through clothing or even a purse."

"Still, that hurts less than getting summoned through this," Malfoy said, touching his Dark Mark through his sleeve. Hermione wondered if that might, in the fuzzy world of prophecy, count as Voldemort marking him as an equal. Despite Malfoy's vehement denial of the possibility, he made a certain sense as the child of prophecy, working to bring the Dark Lord down from the inside. Unlike the Potters and Longbottoms, who had _fought_ Voldemort, the Malfoys had actively _defied_ him at least three times: Narcissa's interference in the plot to make Draco murder Dumbledore, her lie to the Dark Lord in the Forbidden Forest about Harry's death, and Lucius's defense of his wife at the expense of his own life.

"Like I said, it's an improvement on the Dark Mark," she smirked at him.

"I really am a bad influence on you," he muttered softly, eying her mouth.

"You don't know how much," Hermione murmured back. For now, she was not going to argue with Malfoy about whether he was the Chosen One, not until she had more evidence to convince him. His mastery of the Elder Wand was a very persuasive piece of the puzzle, if she could both prove it him and trust him with that knowledge. While Malfoy would be an undeniable improvement over Voldemort, she did not want the responsibility for creating another dark lord on her shoulders.

"It really is Luna!" Hermione said excitedly moments later, as a new message formed around the edge of the Galleon: _Norrbotten, Sweden. Just because Daddy and I couldn't find them doesn't mean they don't exist._

"Or someone who has her under the Imperius Curse," Malfoy suggested pessimistically. "Though that does seem like a genuine message from Loony Lovegood. Don't say anything about me until you know it's safe, alright?"

"I won't say anything _good_ about you, until I know it's safe," she amended.

"Otherwise, you'd be praising me as the next coming of Merlin. Admit it, Granger," he teased.

She gave him a look. With his ego, she should not have been surprised that he recovered so quickly from being turned down. Shaking her head, Hermione began forming her next message to Luna. "That's the Malfoy I know."

"And love?" he suggested, smirk in place.

"In your dreams," she rolled her eyes. No, she did not love him, but she liked him and wished she knew whether she could fully trust him.

Hours and dozens of messages later, Hermione's eyes were blurred with fatigue, but she had compiled a full list of survivors on the Light side, written down with a Muggle biro in a spiral-bound notebook and carefully encrypted. She also had shared what she knew about those who had been missing or captured and their respective situations. Percy and Neville's status as Death Eaters had taken several messages apiece to explain, and Luna - who could believe almost anything - still was incredulous at their betrayal.

"Granger, you look knackered. You should go to bed," Malfoy urged.

She appreciated how he carefully framed his words as a firm suggestion rather than a command. Both of them were getting better at navigating around the compulsions created by the runes on her back, though its effects still were undeniable. Certainly the desire to please Malfoy was caused by the brand, but Hermione was not sure whether it could be blamed for her undeniable and growing attraction to him.

"You're right, Malfoy," Hermione agreed sleepily, deciding to leave that knotty problem for another day. She yawned hugely and stretched, oblivious to how his borrowed T-short rode up, exposing more than a sliver of her stomach, or how his eyes were drawn to that exposed skin. "Now tell me not to discuss what I learned from Luna with anyone other than you or her."

"Bossy, aren't you?" Malfoy commented.

"Especially for a branded slave," she said, suddenly bitter. She _hated_ that he had the power to command her, even if he did use it circumspectly.

"I forbid you to talk with anyone other than Loony or myself about what you learned from her," he ordered, ignoring her comment.

Minutes later, as Malfoy extinguished the lights in their shared bedroom, Hermione felt a flicker of optimism for the first time since Harry's death. A surprising number of wizards and witches on the Light side had escaped after the battle at Hogwarts, and they seemed determined to keep fighting. Hermione drifted off to sleep on her side of the bed feeling reasonably content, a feeling that lasted only a few hours before she jerked into wakefulness, screaming.

"Granger - Granger! It's just a nightmare!" Malfoy said, trying to get through to her as she thrashed beneath the bedcovers. " _Lumos_!" he cried, wandlessly illuminating their bedroom.

"It's just a nightmare, Granger," he repeated soothingly, his arms tight around her. "I'm here and you're safe."

It had not been just a nightmare. It had been an incredibly vivid, horrid dream where she had been forced to watch so, so many of the survivors Luna had identified just this evening being brutally tortured to death before her eyes by Voldemort and a circle of masked Death Eaters. Malfoy had been the first victim, made an example of for his role in their failed rebellion, followed by Neville and then Kingsley. The Dark Lord was taking no chances, exterminating everyone who might be the Chosen One.

Hermione knew it was time to come clean. The worst part of her nightmare was the knowledge that it was all her fault. The rebellion had failed because of her obstinate insistence on keeping Dumbledore's secrets.

"Draco, you're the master," she gasped, staring up at his eyes. Somehow, she had wound up pinned underneath him.

A shadow crossed his face, his expression shifting from concern to annoyance, with just a hint of regret. "Bollocks," he said bluntly, sitting up abruptly. "No one could be your master - certainly not me."

"Not of me," Hermione shook her head in frustration, eager to explain. "You're the master of the Elder Wand."

"Like in the _Tale of the Three Brothers_?" he asked, his brow furrowed. "One of the Deathly Hallows?"

"Yes," she said emphatically, noticing that he was wearing only silk boxer shorts. "For Godric's sake, can you put a shirt on, Malfoy?"

"Like what you see, Granger?" he smirked, even as he left the bed to pull a dark t-shirt out of a drawer and over his head. He tossed her a jumper, still smirking. "I suppose it _is_ a bit nippy in here."

"Malfoy!" she shrieked in outrage, realizing his eyes had dropped to her chest and that her nipples were rather prominent in the cold room. "Get your mind out of the gutter and listen to me. This is important," she stressed, shrugging into the jumper to eliminate any distractions. "Like I said, you're the master of the Elder Wand."

"That's also bollocks," he said with infuriating skepticism. "It's just a fairy tale."

"It's not," she contradicted. "The Deathly Hallows exist. The Elder Wand in particular can be traced through history. Most recently, Dumbledore won it from Grindelwald in a duel. The Dark Lord stole the wand from his tomb at Hogwarts, but he was never truly its master even though he had physical possession of it. He murdered Professor Snape during the battle to become the master of the Elder Wand, but it didn't work because he wasn't the one who took the wand from Professor Dumbledore."

"I disarmed him," Draco admitted, grey eyes wide and frightened. "But Potter disarmed _me_ at Malfoy Manor, so he was the master of the wand, not me." He spoke with an air of desperate hopefulness.

"I don't think it counted, because he grabbed it from you instead of using magic," Hermione speculated.

"And I practically shoved it in his hands," Malfoy added sourly. "By that point, I really wanted Potter to win. But what about that Auror, Shacklebolt? He disarmed the Dark Lord and has the bloody wand, so why can't he be its master?"

"Because the wand chooses the wizard, and it chose you instead of Kingsley?" Hermione guessed.

"I suppose if he were the master, it would have worked when he hit the Dark Lord with an AK to the heart," Malfoy groused, clearly not eager to accept his own mastery over the Elder Wand.

"Maybe not," Hermione temporized, realizing she needed to tell Malfoy about Voldemort's Horcruxes, too.

"I still don't know how he survived that," he added. "Maybe he really is a heartless bastard."

In for a pence, in for a pound - or in for a Knut, in for a Galleon, if she was converting to wizarding money. Whatever the currency, Hermione made the decision that she was going to trust Malfoy. "Let's go back in the main room and get a cuppa. We need to talk about the Dark Lord's Horcruxes."

"Horcruxes?" Malfoy asked, puzzled by the unfamiliar term.

"Receptacles for the Dark Lord's soul. They all need to be destroyed before he can be killed," she explained. "Professor Dumbledore thought he made seven: a diary; a ring and locket that belonged to Salazar Slytherin; Hufflepuff's cup; Ravenclaw's diadem; his snake; and Harry, who was an accidental Horcrux."

Even in the dim light of the room, Hermione could see that Malfoy looked pale, paler than usual. "One of his Horcruxes was a diadem?" he asked hoarsely.

At her nod, he swore softly and ran one hand through his already sleep-tousled hair. "Oh, fuck. Granger, we do need to talk."


	33. Neville's First Mission

**_May 11, 1998_**

"Rise and shine, you lazy fuckers! Get your hands out of your pants and your arses out of bed!" The crude words were amplified by a Sonorus Charm.

"Malfoy," Neville mumbled into his pillow, accurately identifying his tormentor. "Fuck off."

"Ow!" he yelped, as Malfoy's Stinging Hex hit him in the stomach. Zacharias Smith cried out in pain a moment later, followed by Goyle and then Zabini. Clearly, Malfoy was in a mood. Neville fervently hoped it was the result of Hermione figuring out a way to give him hell, despite the slave brand on her back.

"What's your problem, Drake?" Zabini dared to ask. "It's not even dawn yet."

"My problem? I don't have a problem, Blaise," the blond wizard denied with an evil grin. "I merely thought it was a lovely morning for a dip in the Black Lake."

"I always knew the Black family insanity would come out someday," Zabini muttered, surprising a snort of laughter from Neville.

Malfoy glared at them both. "Given what my Aunt Bella was like, you really shouldn't push me. Now _get up_."

Reluctantly, Neville obeyed - not because he was scared of Malfoy, but because he was learning to pick and choose his battles. The blond wizard's sadistic insistence on early morning workouts was not a battle worth fighting, in Neville's opinion. He knew that training might save his life someday.

Zabini, however, persisted, lounging on his bed. "Seriously, Drake, are you alright? You look like shite. I haven't seen circles like that under your eyes since sixth year."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in warning at his friend. "It's nothing like that. Granger just had me up for most of the night."

From his bed in the far corner, Zacharias Smith snickered. "She's got good stamina, then, for a Mudblood. It's always the quiet ones."

"No one asked your opinion, Smith," Malfoy snarled at him. "Like you would know anything, being a virginal Hufflepuff." His face shifted to an almost rueful grin. "Besides, Granger's a screamer - there's nothing quiet about her."

"I'm not a virgin - " Smith began to protest.

"Shut it," Malfoy said, patently uninterested. "Blaise, take this loser and start running laps around the Quidditch pitch," he instructed. "He could use a few extra. I want a word with Longbottom before we all go swimming with the Giant Squid."

Neville deliberately straightened his posture, pleased he had an inch or two in height on Malfoy, as well as a heftier build. However, Goyle was even larger, and had his arms pinned behind his back before he could blink, even before the door had closed behind Smith and Zabini.

"What do you want, Malfoy?" Neville asked, refusing to be intimidated.

"Answers to a few questions," Malfoy said quietly, his wand out but held low. "What do you know about the prophecy regarding the Chosen One? What did your parents do to defy the Dark Lord? And where is Potter's Invisibility Cloak?"

"I don't know anything about a prophecy or an invisibility cloak," Neville bluffed. "As for my parents, they were Aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix during the first war. You know damn well what happened to them."

"I'm sorry about that," Malfoy said unexpectedly. "But as for the rest, you're a shite liar, Longbottom."

Neville opened his mouth to deny it, but snapped it shut as Malfoy raised his wand. " _Legilemens_."

If he had not been immobilized by Goyle, Neville would have clapped his hands to his ears in response to the horrific feeling of Malfoy slinking through his mind. He was helpless to stop the blond wizard from finding and viewing what he was searching for: Neville's last conversation with Harry.

"Did Potter tell you whether an _Avada_ would have worked on the snake?" Malfoy asked abruptly, breaking their connection. "Did you have to use Gryffindor's sword to kill it?"

"You saw what Harry said," Neville said. Due to his impotent anger at the mental intrusion, he did not volunteer that he had tried to sever the snake's head with a _Diffindo_ but the spell had not worked.

"So Potter knew fuck-all," Malfoy said disgustedly, half to himself. "And your mind is like a sieve, Longbottom. If I wanted the cloak, you know I could find out where you have it hidden in about two seconds, right?"

Neville's hazel eyes shot to Malfoy's icy grey ones in an involuntary appeal. The Invisibility Cloak did not just make it easier to meet and comfort Hannah - it was also the means for his revenge on Carrow.

"I don't want the bloody thing," Malfoy said vehemently. "I don't give a flying fuck what Granger says - I'm not the Chosen One or the master of Elder Wand or the one who's going to unite the Deathly Hallows. Merlin help us, we're stuck with you."

"What are you on about?" Neville asked, gaping at him.

Malfoy shook his head in aggravation. "How can you have such a thick skull but such thin mental barriers? Honestly, it's better you don't know. You'd get us all killed if you did. _Obliviate_."

Neville blinked at Malfoy, wondering if Goyle had just cuffed him. His head felt fuzzy. "What do you want, Malfoy?" he repeated, wondering why the three of them were just standing there.

"To inform you that you've got your first mission tonight, Longbottom, and you'd better not fuck it up. It's two middle-aged Muggles, a married couple. Rape and torture is optional, but you're going with the Lestrange brothers, so I suggest you _Avada_ the victims quickly if you don't want to be there all night while they suffer," Malfoy coldly advised.

Neville gulped, a chill spreading through his body. He dreamt every night of Dennis Creevey, whom he had killed quickly so the younger boy would not suffer. Now he was expected to add two more people to his body count. "Alright," he said weakly, knowing there was nothing else he could say.

There were no words sufficient to describe his relief later that night when they arrived at the Muggles' house in a quiet Surrey suburb to find it clearly vacant, a "To Let" sign planted by the front gate.

"Let's go inside to make sure they've moved out," Neville said brightly, playing the role of a diligent little Death Eater.

Once they broke in, using a handy _Alohomora_ , Rodolphus moaned in frustration at the sight of the empty rooms. "I was looking forward to a good torture session," he complained. "I'm losing my touch. I can barely do anything fun with Little Red."

Neville gritted his teeth to refrain from commenting on the Lestrange brothers' twisted idea of fun. Nothing he said would help Ginny.

"I wonder where the Muggles went?" Rabastan wondered, more practically. "Maybe the Dark Lord will let us get it out of their Mudblood daughter." He licked his lips at the thought.

"No, he'll leave that to Malfoy," Rodolphus sighed in disappointment. "The brat seems to have his filthy bint well in hand. He's high in the Dark Lord's favor - for now."

Neville blinked and took a closer look around, realizing he was standing in Hermione's childhood home, now understanding why he had been ordered to kill a Muggle couple. He was more relieved than ever that the Muggles - her parents - had fled to parts unknown.

"Well, I'm for Hogwarts and for bed," Neville yawned, feigning an exhaustion he was far from feeling. He would be able to meet Hannah tonight after all. She was not always able to make it, due to Carrow's demands, but he was there every night. Even when she was absent, for reasons they never wanted to talk about, Neville found it soothing to putter around the greenhouse, inhaling the scent of rich soil and tending to a plant here and there.

When he entered the Slytherin boys' dormitory a quarter-hour later, wanting to change out of his Death Eater regalia before going to the greenhouses, Smith was suspiciously pleased to see him.

"You're back early, Neville," the obnoxious Hufflepuff crowed from his desk. " _None_ of us were expecting you 'til after midnight."

From his own desk, Blaise frowned at them both but said nothing, returning to the parchment before him with the clear attitude of a man who was determined to avoid any unsavory drama.

"D'ya want to take those off? Make yourself more comfortable?" Goyle awkwardly asked someone from behind the closed green curtains on his bed.

Neville raised his eyebrows. He had not known any witches were interested in Malfoy's hulking sidekick. Perhaps being a Death Appeal enhanced Goyle's appeal. Of course the lout _would_ forget to put up a Silencing Charm, if he even knew how.

"Okay," the witch agreed.

Neville stiffened. Even with only those two soft-spoken syllables, he would recognize Hannah's voice anywhere. As Smith smirked in anticipation, Neville strode over to Goyle's bed and flung open the curtains, intent on punishing Goyle for daring to hurt his girlfriend.

It was a perfectly innocent scene. Hannah was seated cross-legged opposite Goyle, a game of Exploding Snap set up between them. She was fully clothed other than her shoes and socks, which she was in the process of removing.

"What are you doing here with Goyle, Hannah?" Neville asked, now more puzzled than anything.

She looked at him, horrified, mouth open but no words coming out. He felt a sudden icy dread at her guilt-stricken expression as certain hushed conversations he had overheard in the boys' washroom began to make a sinister sort of sense.

Smith answered for her, laughing. "Didn't you know, Longbottom? Carrow rents her out by the hour. Greg paid enough to fuck her 'til curfew."

"No, that's not what I was going to do," Goyle protested. "Hannah's nice. She used to help me out in Charms. I just wanted to give her a night where she didn't have to . . . " He trailed off, clearly at a loss as how to finish that sentence.

"Be a whore?" Smith suggested. "Fuck and suck any wizard with a couple of Galleons to spend?"

Neville turned and punched the Hufflepuff in his sneering mouth, uncaring that his knuckles were scraped by Smith's teeth. He pulled back his arm, this time aiming for the nose, but Goyle got there first, his massive fist crunching bone as he hit Smith directly in the face. The Hufflepuff crumpled to the ground and Neville - to his own shock - kicked him while he was down. He found that he liked the sensation of his foot sinking into Smith's soft stomach and did it again, Goyle joining in.

"Take it easy," Blaise advised mildly from his desk. "Drake will be annoyed if you kill him."

Goyle grunted in acknowledgment and desisted. "Don't ever call Hannah that word," he warned the prone Hufflepuff.

Neville, however, ignored Zabini in favor of kicking Smith again.

"Stop it, Neville!" Hannah screamed as he raised a booted foot to stomp on Smith's face. "You're not like this!"

He stepped away, breathing hard. "They've made me like this," he said to her, more harshly than he intended.

He looked at his girlfriend, taking in her tawdry clothing and too-bright lipstick. "Just like they've made you like _that_ ," he said bitterly, not realizing how Hannah would take his words.

Hannah gasped, tears filling her eyes. She then whirled and ran from the room, barefoot, leaving her socks and shoes behind.


	34. Percy's Special Project

_**May 20, 1998**_

Percy was in his office, working diligently on yet another report, when a short, squat shadow crossed his door. It was his only warning before a pink-clad witch descended upon him.

" _Hem-hem_. Good morning, Percy," Dolores Umbridge coughed delicately. "I do hope I am not interrupting."

"Of course not, Madam Undersecretary," he lied with a politeness he was far from feeling. "How may I be of assistance?"

"Your presence is required at a _very important_ interdepartmental meeting," she stated, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was an ordinary clock, not like the one that had hung in the Burrow's kitchen and now was propped on his bedside table. His office clock merely showed the time, not that he was in mortal peril. "Do come along - we don't want to be late!" Umbridge trilled.

She trotted swiftly through the maze of hallways into a lift, Percy following in her wake. His long legs allowed him to easily match her pace even as his mind raced. Had he and Audrey been caught? Was Umbridge taking him to the lowest levels of the Ministry for a summary trial and transport to Azkaban? Or even a Dementor's Kiss?

Percy took a deep, calming breath. _Steady on, old boy_ , he chastised himself. If he and Audrey had been caught, or if she had betrayed him to her Death Eater family, there would have been Aurors in his office, not a single stumpy bureaucrat. Umbridge was merely taking him to a meeting, as she had said, where boredom was the greatest risk he would face.

Umbridge halted outside a nondescript conference room. "Here we are," she announced brightly.

Taking the hint, Percy opened the closed door and gestured for the witch to precede him. In addition to being mannerly, this also gave him a moment to check who else was in the room. He gulped, realizing that boredom would _not_ be an issue. Lord Voldemort was seated at the head of the conference table. With his red-eyed, snake-nosed presence dominating the room, Pius Thicknesse, Percy's boss and the Minister of Magic, and Augustus Rookwood, now in charge of the Department of Mysteries, faded into insignificance.

Umbridge took a seat at Voldemort's left hand and pointed Percy to a seat at the foot of the table. He focused on steady breathing and thinking about the importance of quality materials and processes in the manufacture of cauldrons.

"Despite your _unfortunate_ family connections, Pius has spoken quite highly of your work and attitude," Umbridge said with condescending approval, opening the meeting. "For that reason, he has recommended you for a _special_ project to assist the Muggleborn Registration Commission."

He tried to look eager, while studiously avoiding Voldemort's red eyes. "I thought the MRC's work was done, Madam Umbridge." So far as Percy knew, all Muggleborns were dead, fled, in custody, or off fighting with the resistance.

"Nearly so, Percy, nearly so," the witch simpered.

Augustus Rookwood picked up the conversational thread. "However efficient Madam Umbridge has been, we do wish to see that no mistakes have been made. Some so-called Mudbloods may be descendants of good wizarding families through a Squib line, while others may be half-bloods, sired by a wizard on an unwitting Muggle."

"Or they may be purebloods, abandoned at a Muggle orphanage," Pius chimed in. Like all good politicians, he knew how to pander and had mastered the art of spin. The Minister of Magic subsided, however, at the faint hiss of disapproval from the head of the table, stammering an apology. Clearly, the _Quibbler_ article that everyone in the Ministry pretended not to have read was a sore spot with Voldemort.

Rookwood continued with a scientist's single-mindedness. "We've begun experiments on the Mudblood prisoners at Azkaban in an attempt to discover the mutation that allows Muggles to spawn magical offspring."

"I told you, they are filthy thieves, who stole their wands and magic from witches and wizards with proper bloodlines!" Umbridge interjected shrilly.

"Balderdash, Madam Undersecretary," Rookwood dismissed her. "Magic cannot be stolen. Wands can be stolen, of course, but they are nothing more than an inert stick of wood in non-magical hands. My Unspeakables are working diligently to discover the mutation that gives rise to magical ability, but I want to be certain we are using the proper test subjects."

"We won't have any Mudbloods left in Azkaban to experiment upon, at the rate your Unspeakables are using them up," Thicknesse complained with a marked lack of distress. "Still, I guess it saves the ratepayers' money."

"Muggles are always breeding, just like the vermin they are," Umbridge editorialized. "We can always find more Mudbloods for your department to use as laboratory rats, Rookwood."

"What is the special project you wish me to undertake?" asked Percy, hiding his horror that the Department of Mysteries was conducting experiments using Muggleborns, and that he was expected to somehow assist in those efforts.

"Research, Percy. We wish you to undertake some research," Voldemort answered with a cruel smile.

"Nothing too onerous for someone with your skill set, Percy," Thicknesse reassured him. "Madam Umbridge would like you to conduct some _genealogical_ research, to make sure no errors have been made with respect to blood status."

"Because testing on those with true wizarding blood would be unethical," Umbridge said primly.

"More importantly, it would skew our test results," Rookwood said, clearly impatient with any mention of ethics.

"Here's the list of the individuals registered with the MRC, along with their current whereabouts," Umbridge said, handing him a roll of parchment.

Perusing the list, Percy saw that the whereabouts for many Muggleborns - including Penny, safe in Romania - were listed as unknown. The largest group of Muggleborns were incarcerated in Azkaban, and Percy knew would need to steel himself up go there.

"You may wish to start at Hogwarts," the Dark Lord suggested. "Visit Miss Granger."

"Of course, my lord," Percy agreed readily. He would prefer to visit a school over a prison any day, and Hermione was one of the few people on the MRC's list he knew personally. He would like to save her from being used as a test subject if he could, though Percy was also astute enough to realize that this project could be a test - or a trap.

"I always thought she was shockingly talented for a witch with two Muggles as parents," Percy ventured. "Perhaps Dumbledore concealed her true lineage in order to use her as a poster child for Muggleborn equality."

"Perhaps," Voldemort agreed sibilantly. "I leave it to you to discover the truth, Percy."

Mere minutes later, after brief stops at his office and the Ministry library to collect a notebook and a wizarding genealogy, respectively, Percy was ready to go.

"Hogwarts!" he called, stepping into the first fireplace in the atrium.

The Floo was connected to the headmaster's office. Percy emerged from the fireplace to the unwelcome sight of Amycus Carrow napping in his desk chair as a scantily-clad blonde girl knelt in the corner. Rather than titillating, Percy found it sad and quickly averted his eyes.

The newly appointed headmaster awoke with a start. "Come to join me for elevenses, Weasley?" he asked sleepily.

"Er, no. Sorry to disturb you, but I need a word with Hermione Granger," Percy replied, carefully concealing his contempt for the man.

"The Mudblood?" Carrow asked, disinterested. "Why? Malfoy won't share 'er. Now, if you've a Galleon and a few minutes to spare, my Hannah can polish your knob," he offered.

"Thank you, but no," Percy said repressively, hiding the pity he felt for poor Hannah.

"Seeing as you're a Weasley, though, you probably don't even have a spare Knut!" Carrow laughed coarsely at his own weak insult.

"It is not a question of money, but rather one of priorities. I wish to see Hermione at the Dark Lord's request," Percy stated.

Invoking the Dark Lord's name spurred the indolent headmaster towards something approaching efficiency. "Well, why didn't ya say so? Elf!" Carrow bellowed, causing Hannah to jerk in fear.

An ugly old elf wearing a pillowcase adorned with the Hogwarts crest and blood stains popped into the office. "Kreacher answers," he croaked, his tone far from respectful. Percy noted that the elf also did not bow, despite being in the presence of his putative master.

"Take Weasley to Malfoy's Mudblood," Carrow ordered, aiming a kick at the elf.

Kreacher ignored the blow, instead training his rheumy eyes on Percy. "Kreacher will take the ginger Death Eater where he needs to go, down to the dungeons."

From the evil glint in the elf's eye, Percy worried that might be some out-of-the-way oubliette rather than to Hermione. Still, he followed Kreacher as the elf limped out of the headmaster's office.

"Are you injured? Do you need bandages?" Percy asked, breaking the silence as they walked through a corridor bereft of any portraits. His family had never owned an elf, but they had always taken good care of an assortment of crups, owls, Pygmy Puffs, and kneazles.

The elf stopped and gave him a sharp look. "The Carrow is not kicking Kreacher so very hard. And the bloodstains is not Kreacher's. They is from the bad wizards Kreacher killed during the battle." He smiled in a reminiscent way, showing sharp, pointed teeth.

Before Percy could comment on that, Kreacher stopped before a nondescript door that was practically buzzing with locking and privacy wards. "This is where my old mistress's great-nephew is keeping Missy Hermione," he announced. "Kreacher wishes to know your intentions towards her, at his master's request."

Percy was puzzled, as he had not seen Carrow give any such orders, but had no qualms about answering. His project was not confidential. To the contrary, the Ministry intended to publicize it wisely. "I merely have a few questions for Hermione about her family. Given her level of magical ability, there is a possibility she is a half-blood rather than a Muggleborn."

Kreacher snorted. "Wizards is always being stupid about blood. It's all red, and dries to brown." He looked at his stained pillowcase with a fond expression before stepping aside.

Percy knocked, bracing himself for a scene similar to the headmaster's office. Malfoy answered the door, but Hermione was right behind him, properly attired in a Hogwarts uniform and with a book bag slung over her shoulder.

"What do you want, Weasley?" Malfoy rudely demanded.

"A word with Hermione," Percy replied, relieved and more than a little surprised at how normal she appeared.

"We were just leaving," Malfoy said with a sneer.

"For the library," Hermione added, giving Percy an assessing look.

"It's official Ministry business," Percy advised.

Malfoy pushed past him. "Sod the Ministry. I answer to the inner circle and the Dark Lord, not a group of bureaucrats. Come along, pet."

"The Dark Lord gave me this task," Percy clarified.

"Bully for you," Malfoy said, blatantly unimpressed. Still, he turned around and returned to his suite of rooms, Hermione following. The blond took a seat on the couch, tugging her down to sit next to him, practically on his lap. "She's listening, Weasley. Ask her what you need to and then get out."

Percy pulled out his notebook and a self-inking quill. "I need the full names and dates of birth for you parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents, if you know them."

Hermione was immediately on the defensive. "They're all dead, except for my parents, and I don't _know_ where they are," she glared at Percy.

"She really doesn't know," Malfoy confirmed, his hand resting on Hermione's knee in what might have been a gesture of restraint, of comfort, or just an excuse to run his fingers along her bare skin, above her knee socks. "Granger Obliviated them and sent them off to America or some other Merlin-forsaken place. Didn't you hear about that debacle where Longbottom showed up at their house for his first mission and it was vacant?"

Percy shook his head. "That's not why I am seeking this information. The Ministry is conducting research into the origins of magic, and - "

"And she's exempt," Malfoy interrupted, cold as ice. "Rookwood and I came to an agreement. Granger has too much magical potential to be wasted on the Unspeakables' experiments."

"Yes, yes," Percy placated him. "My research is to find out whether some Muggleborns in fact have a magical parent or are descended from a Squib line."

After several moment's uncomfortable scrutiny, Malfoy turned to Hermione. "He's not lying. You should tell him what he needs to know," he ordered.

She obeyed, somewhat reluctantly, as Percy recorded the names and birthdates in his notebook. One of her grandparents had been a Jones - a common wizarding name, but also one that was widespread among Muggles. Still, he placed a tick mark to follow up.

"Oliveri? That's not a British name, is it?" queried Percy, as Hermione continued to recite her diverse family tree.

She and Malfoy shot him identical, annoyed looks at the obvious question. While the blond wizard muttered under his breath about the pernicious impact of red hair on brain cells, Hermione provided some intriguing family history. "My grandmother Rosalia was Sicilian. She met my grandfather - my dad's dad - when he was stationed in Palermo with the RAF during the Second World War."

"I assume the MRC considered foreign wizarding bloodlines?" Malfoy drawled.

"I don't know," Percy admitted. "Obviously, the Ministry recognizes foreign wizarding bloodlines as valid, and that is part of my assignment - to determine if so-called Muggleborns have any magical blood. Madam Umbridge may not have looked further in cases like Hermione's, where her parents are known Muggles."

"Insular, prejudiced bitch," Hermione spat.

Malfoy tweaked one of her curls. "Careful," he warned. She glared at him, and he smirked, twining the curl around his finger to draw her face closer to his.

Percy cleared his throat. "Was your paternal grandmother a witch?" he asked.

"Not that I know, but she was killed in a car crash in Sicily in 1945 when my dad was still an infant," she answered, drawing away from Malfoy with reddened cheeks.

"That was during Grindelwald's war," Malfoy pointed out. "I can check with my mate Zabini to see if Oliveri is a wizarding name."

Percy made another tick mark. "I'll do my own research, thank you." He did not trust Malfoy to provide any information against his own perceived self-interest.

"Still, I doubt you'd get power like Granger's from having a Squib as a grandparent, or even a witch. The bloodlines would be too diluted," Malfoy opined. "It's usually found only in the oldest pureblood families, even if they out-cross with a Muggle."

"What are you implying, Malfoy?" asked Percy.

"Nothing whatsoever," the blond shrugged. "You do know that she stays with me no matter what you find, Weasley. It doesn't matter if Granger's a pureblood, a half-blood, or a Mudblood." Possessively, he rubbed his hand along the small of her back, where he had branded her.

To Percy's mind, the worst thing about that statement was not Malfoy's utter confidence that Hermione would remain his captive. It was the way she arched into his hand, like a petted cat, and the almost-adoring look that she gave him in response.

He cleared his throat once again in a deliberate response to the odd intimacy he observed between those two. It made him highly uncomfortable. "Well, then, I'll just be off to the Ministry. I'll owl you with any further questions, Hermione."

They were so caught up in each other that Percy thought they barely registered his departure.


	35. Theo Sees a Ghost

**_May 28, 1998_**

"It's just a rock. How hard can it be to figure out?" Ron Weasley demanded rhetorically. "I don't think you're trying hard enough, Nott."

"Yeah, I think I'll have to report back to Kingsley that the Death Eater is playing dumb," Dean Thomas chimed in. Weasley's former roommate was normally stationed in Belfast with a large group of resistance fighters, but had taken to coming by Shell Cottage to monitor Theo's progress with the Resurrection Stone.

Theo looked up from the tiny black stone with narrowed eyes at the two Gryffindors lounging against the wall in the warded cellar of Shell Cottage. He clenched his jaw to hold back a retort. After a string of exhausting and fruitless days trying to unlock the power of the Resurrection Stone, currently lying inert on a square of silk on the wooden worktable, his patience was worn thin.

Surprisingly, Professor Flitwick spoke up in his defense. The Charms professor had come out of hiding at Gringotts, which his goblin relatives had turned into a veritable fortress, to assist with the Deathly Hallow.

"It's not just a rock," the professor said testily, prodding at it with his wand. "It's a magical artifact, layered with complex enchantments - ones you two might be able to perceive if you'd taken NEWT-level Charms like Mr. Nott."

"Sorry I couldn't take your class this year, Professor, but _his_ kind said _my_ kind wasn't welcome at Hogwarts," Dean said.

"And I was off with Harry, finding and destroying - " Ron broke off in a belated attempt at discretion in front of Nott the Evil Death Eater Spy. Theo knew that was how the ginger regarded him, and nothing would change his mind.

" - Horcruxes," Luna finished, foiling Weasley's pathetic attempt to keep a secret. "And you're quite sure you found them all, aren't you, Ronald?"

"Yeah," he answered, annoyed. "Me and Harry and Hermione got them all. Bill and Kingsley are pretty sure Voldy couldn't have made more than six, or he would disintegrate."

"What's a Horcrux?" Dean asked.

Ron gave Luna a quelling look, to which she was oblivious. Still, Theo did not want her to get on the wrong side of the infamous Weasley temper. "It's a soul anchor," he intervened, before she could reply. "A wizard who creates one can't be killed unless the Horcrux is destroyed."

"That's what Voldy did?" Dean looked properly horrified. "Blimey!"

Weasley, however, took it as a chance to sneer at Theo. The ginger's hostility towards him had become increasingly personal during the weeks they had lived together at the cramped cottage. "Of course you'd know what a Horcrux is, Nott. You've probably made one yourself."

"I'd never do that," Theo protested. The very idea of splitting his soul was distasteful. It already was stained and tattered enough from the misdeeds he had committed as a Death Eater.

"I know you wouldn't," Luna said, slipping her hand in his.

Observing this, Ron's face turned an ugly shade of maroon that clashed terribly with his hair. "Don't be daft, Luna. You don't know what Nott's capable of. You barely know him at all."

Theo dropped his eyes. For once, Weasley was right. Theo had murdered a man to get his Dark Mark, and he doubted Luna could ever forgive that. She was like a unicorn, so shining and magically pure that Theo thought he should not be permitted to touch her.

"Stop squabbling, children," Professor Flitwick admonished. "All I care about - and all that you should care about - is whether Mr. Nott, irrespective of what he has done in the past, is capable of getting the Resurrection Stone to work for him now."

"Not!" Ron and Dean both coughed ostentatiously into their hands. Or perhaps it was just Theo's surname, but it grated on him nonetheless, immature as it was. He felt a childish impulse to burst into _Weasley Is Our King_ \- the Slytherin version - in retaliation, but quashed it. Professor Flitwick was right. They should not be squabbling while Voldemort remained in power.

"Professor, I'm at a loss," Theo confessed instead. "Luna and I tried every opening and revealing charm from all seven volumes of Madam Goshawk's _Standard Book of Spells_ , plus every other charms book you brought with you." Flitwick's book collection was quite an extensive one, too - stacked together, they were taller than he was.

The Charms professor tugged at his beard, deep in thought. "Perhaps there is something in the Restricted Section at the Hogwarts Library ... or perhaps a book about the Deathly Hallows themselves."

"But, Professor, Hogwarts is controlled by Death Eaters." Dean pointed out the obvious.

"Hermione," Ron said suddenly. "She's at Hogwarts."

As much as Theo hated to admit it, the Gryffindor's idea was a clever one - or perhaps reliance on Granger was an ingrained habit. She _was_ at Hogwarts and, from what little Luna said about her friend's situation, had enough freedom to at least sporadically communicate with the Order. Theo assumed that meant she was being kept in someone's bedroom rather than the dungeons, but kept that thought to himself, having no desire to be pummeled by gingers. Still, he was surprised that Weasley would be so cavalier about volunteering his ex-girlfriend's services.

"Can she help us? Isn't that going to put her in danger?" Dean asked, echoing Theo's thoughts.

Ron looked uncomfortable. "Hermione's already in danger, isn't she? She'll be willing to do anything to bring Voldy down."

"I believe Hermione spends a great deal of time in the library," Luna added serenely. "I'll send her a message to see if she can help without running an unacceptable risk."

Theo watched in fascination as Luna pulled an ordinary-looking Galleon from the tie-dyed pouch at her waist and squeezed it in her palm, a look of concentration on her face.

Professor Flitwick, peering intently at the coin as Luna sent and received a series of verification messages, clapped his hands in delight. "What a clever use of the Protean charm! What does Miss Granger have to say?"

Luna smiled. "Now that she knows it's really me, because of the Rotfang Conspiracy and dentists' special power to fight it with fluoride, Hermione's happy to help. She wants to know precisely what we're looking for."

"A book that contains the charm or other method to use the Resurrection Stone," Flitwick summarized.

Luna nodded and closed her hand around the charmed Galleon again, relaying the request. Less than a minute later, she began giggling as she read the return message. "Of course! It's in _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_! I should have thought of that!"

"But I re-read the story about the three brothers," Theo objected. "It didn't say how the second brother was able to use the Resurrection Stone, just that he used it to bring his beloved back."

"Hermione has an original runic edition that Professor Dumbledore left her in his will. She's just checking the translation now," Luna explained.

It took only a minute or two for Granger to reply, but it seemed much longer to Theo as everyone watched the golden Galleon in silence, waiting for the letters on the coin's perimeter to shift.

"' _Turn the stone over three times while holding it in the palm of your hand_ ,'" Ron read the message aloud. "That's it? It's that bloody easy?"

He turned to Luna. "Ask Hermione if she's sure. It seems daft, that it would be that easy to bring back the dead."

"The Resurrection Stone doesn't really bring back the dead, Ronald," Luna reminded him, more gently than Theo would have done. "It's just an echo from beyond the Veil. And I'm sure Hermione gave us the correct translation."

"Still, check with her, will you?" Weasley insisted.

Luna shrugged. "I'll ask, but you may not like the answer." She held the coin in her fist, sending his question.

"' _Yes, Ronald, I'm certain_ ,'" Dean quoted, grinning. "Good old Hermione. Glad to see some things never change."

A new message appeared on the Galleon. "' _Ginger git. Why are you questioning the translation when you wouldn't know an ancient rune from the freckles on your arse?_ '"

"No need for her to get so stroppy," Weasley muttered.

Theo bit his lip, suppressing a snicker. From the level of snark in the last message, he suspected that Granger's Galleon had just been hijacked. He had never heard her mock the redhead's hair color, but Draco never let up. And the blond had loudly and often claimed that he would be forever traumatized after seeing Weasley changing in the Quidditch locker rooms due to the sheer number of freckles on display. Theo decided to talk with Luna later, to see if Draco was Granger's protector. If so, she could count herself lucky - amongst Death Eaters, Drake was one of the few who actually would protect a Mudblood girl.

Dean Thomas did not even try to hide his laughter at the message. "You deserved that, Ron. Hermione's the brightest witch of our age, and you never even took Ancient Runes."

His grin faded and his eyes hardened as he looked at Theo. "Ready to give it a go, Death Eater? Maybe your victims will come back and haunt you. I hope so."

"I'm ready," Theo said, ignoring the taunt. As he flipped the stone in his right hand, he hoped that the shade of Dirk Cresswell - the Muggleborn he had murdered to earn his Dark Mark - would not appear. He also realized Luna still was holding his left hand. "You can let go, you know," he said, gently.

"I know," she agreed, squeezing his hand instead of releasing it. "I want to hang on, though, to give you an anchor. The dead do not mean to be harmful, but their priorities are very different than ours."

From behind him, Theo heard the soft rustle of a witch's dress robes. He turned around, heart pounding. "Mum?"

She was as beautiful as he remembered, her blonde hair shimmering and her light blue eyes bright. Theo remembered snuggling up against her, but now he was the taller, with her head barely reaching his shoulder.

"Oh, Theo! How you've grown!" she exclaimed. "My little boy is now a man."

"I've missed you, Mum. So much," Theo choked out as she embraced him. He felt a cool pressure around his shoulders - not the iciness of passing through a ghost, but still far from the warm hug of a living person.

"Of course you did, my gift," she cooed. "All those years when you had to grow up without me! Your father couldn't possibly have provided a substitute for a mother's love."

"He did his best," Theo defended his father.

"That cold fish! You needn't make excuses for him to me, Theodore."

She smiled at him fondly, though the use of his full name was a warning sign he remembered from childhood. His mother could get very emotional, very quickly. Her expression also was more vapid than he recalled. It reminded him of that Brown girl in Gryffindor. That made sense, since his mother had been a Brown and he and Lavender were cousins, but Theo still felt put off by that particular family resemblance.

"And of course your father's never remarried," his mother tittered with more than a bit of malice. "Who would possibly have him, after I died?"

Instinctively, Theo knew it would be a bad idea to tell her that Charlus was now married to the former Narcissa Malfoy, née Black. He had dim recollections from early childhood of his parents fighting over perceived infidelities on both sides, his mother's accusations fueled by a hysterical jealously while his father laid out cold facts.

Luna tugged at his hand and cleared her throat, bringing Theo back to the present. "Actually, Madam Nott, we were hoping you could help us. Theo needs to speak with Professor Dumbledore."

"The headmaster? Why would Theo possibly need to speak with him? Theo, are you in some sort of trouble at school?" queried his mother. "And who are you?" she added in a clear afterthought, directed to Luna.

"I'm Luna Lovegood," Luna politely introduced herself.

"You can see my mum? You can hear her?" Theo asked, shocked. He had read up on the Resurrection Stone extensively, and this was _not_ how it was supposed to work. No one other than himself should be able to see or communicate with the shades he brought back - and that made him invaluable to the Order.

"Of course I can see dead people," Luna replied, utterly serene. "Not just ghosts, like everyone else. I see them walking around like regular people. They see me, too, even if they don't see each other."

"Luna? Are you Pandora's daughter? That explains a great deal," sniffed Theo's mother, injecting herself back into the conversation. "I remember that she - "

"Mum," Theo redirected her, "I need your help. It's not trouble at school - it's worse than that. The Dark Lord's taken over. That's why we need to consult with Dumbledore."

His mother - _it wasn't really her, just an echo called back by the Resurrection Stone_ , Theo reminded himself - looked terrified. "I can't go against the Dark Lord!" she gasped.

"His power doesn't extend beyond the Veil," Luna said with surety. "I swear it on my magic."

"Please, Mum?" Theo begged. "Please help me."

"I can't, Theo." She shook her head, regretfully. "I can't fetch Dumbledore for you. The Stone doesn't work that way. You are its master, but you can only call back the ones who you love. I'm so sorry."

"Can I come with you to find him?" Theo asked in desperation.

"No," his mother and Luna spoke in unison.

Luna clung to his hand, while his mother hugged him again and kissed him, her lips cool against his cheek.

"I need to leave you now," his mum explained. "It's not yet your time to go."

"Will I see you again?" Theo asked, trying to hold onto her.

"I hope not," his mother said, slipping from his grasp and fading away without a sound.

 **A/N: I couldn't resist Luna's homage to** ** _The Sixth Sense_** **!**


	36. Ginny's Monthly Visitor

**A/N: a non-con trigger warning applies to the** **last part of the chapter.**

 ** _May 31, 1998_**

"I don't want to see him, Trixie," Ginny addressed her own reflection petulantly. "He can sit and wait in the parlor all afternoon with Rabastan and Rodolphus for all I care. Let them keep him company - maybe they'll wind up killing one another!"

One of the Lestrange house elves had popped into her bedroom a few minutes before to inform her that Percy had arrived for his monthly visit. Ginny had thrown a shoe at the bat-eared creature and ordered it to leave her alone before storming off into the bathroom.

"That won't happen," the mirror predicted with confidence. "Your brother, from what you've told me, is too clever and careful to show up without a safe-conduct in place."

Ginny snorted in reluctant agreement.

"He's still your brother, and blood matters," Trixie pointed out.

"Family matters," Ginny corrected with a snarl, hating the way that tears prickled in her eyes. She would rather be angry than sad - sadness was a weak emotion, and she could not afford to be weak. "But Percy's no brother of mine. Not after he sold me to these Lestrange nutters!"

"He did not sell you - he negotiated the terms of an arranged marriage for you," Trixie contradicted. "With your parents deceased, Percy did what any pureblood brother should do for his younger sister."

"Bollocks! Sheer and utter hairy bollocks!" Ginny angrily denied.

"Your brother ensured that your husband and brother-in-law have to refrain from using two of the three Unforgivables on your person. Considering that the Cruciactus Curse is bread and butter for the Lestranges, I would say Percy did rather well for you - certainly better than Bella's family did for her," the mirror opined.

Ginny just shook her head, too disgusted to say anything. Perhaps as to be expected from a Black magical object, the mirror's perceptions - if not its reflection - could be rather warped.

"I suggest that you try to cultivate Percy," Trixie advised. "Unlike us, he's free to use a wand against dear old Roddy and Rabby."

"Percy?" Ginny scoffed. She was about to say that her pedantic middle brother was incapable of hurting a fly, but then she remembered. "My parents are dead because Percy murdered them!" she spat.

"Patricide is not unknown among the Sacred Twenty-Eight," murmured the mirror. "I'm certain Percy had his reasons. Even if the rest of your brothers are hunted down and killed as blood traitors, he has ensured your family line will survive."

"Not if I kill him first," Ginny growled.

"You won't be able to. You're bound by the safe conduct as a member of the Lestrange family."

"I am not a Lestrange!" Ginny protested vehemently, ignoring the ring on her finger. Bile filled her mouth at the thought, and she ducked her head to spit it into the sink.

"Well, what about the baby? It's a Lestrange, isn't it?" Trixie probed.

Ginny said nothing, instead turning on the tap to wash the mess away. She watched it swirl down the drain, deciding that looking into the mirror would not be wise at this moment. Trixie had an uncanny ability to tell when Ginny was lying. She was not yet ready to acknowledge the pregnancy, or share her fervent hope was that the baby was _not_ a Lestrange.

"When are you going to tell them?" the mirror asked. "They will need to know, eventually."

"And I'll tell them, _eventually_ ," Ginny snapped. She wanted to hold off a little bit longer, though. Her monthly was already two weeks late and she was almost certainly up the duff, but if she fudged the dates enough, the thought would never even cross the Lestrange brothers' minds that her baby might have been fathered by someone else. She stomped from the bathroom, deciding a confrontational tea with Percy was preferable to being interrogated by the mirror over her pregnancy symptoms.

"Give my regards to your brother!" Trixie called after her, giving a disapproving sniff at Ginny's rude gesture in response.

Percy was seated primly in the front parlor, ankles crossed. Ginny stopped in the threshold, gripping her wand with white-knuckled fingers. "Blood traitor," she hissed at him.

"Now, now, Ginevra," Rodolpus reprimanded, looking at her with bloodshot eyes. "Is that the proper way to greet a guest?"

"Even if he _is_ a blood-betraying weasel," Rabastan grinned at her, a betraying slur to his words.

Unlike either of the Lestrange brothers, who remained slumped in their seats after most a day spent drinking Firewhiskey rather than tea, Percy stood briefly to greet her. "Ginny. How are you?"

"I'm fine," she muttered, not willing to give either Lestrange the satisfaction of knowing how she really felt.

At a gesture from Rodolphus, she poured out the tea for everyone. "How's the Ministry?" she asked once that task was complete, deciding that this one question would be enough to discharge her duties as a pureblood hostess. Percy could easily prattle on about work for the next hour.

Percy cleared his throat in a pompous way. "Rather interesting, to tell you the truth. I've been asked to assist the DOM and MRC in an ongoing research project regarding the origin of magic in humans."

Ginny sipped her tea and made a face as her stomach lurched, realizing that Percy was taking part in the Ministry's barbaric experiments on Muggleborns.

"Oh, so that's why you've been spending so much time at Azkaban, meeting with Mudbloods," Rabastan chortled, more than drunk than sober. "And here I thought you'd found yourself a special friend amongst the prisoners."

Percy ignored him. "I met with Hermione last week at Hogwarts."

Ginny looked up from her sullen study of the Aubusson rug, eager for news of her friend. "How is she? Is the Ferret treating her alright?"

"Hermione seemed quite as usual," Percy replied, picking his words with care. "If 'the Ferret' is your appellation for Malfoy, then the only observation I can offer is that he keeps her close. Very close indeed."

"Keep your friends close, your enemies closer, and keep your women closest of all," Rabastan suggested. "Especially a fuckable Mudblood like that."

Once again, Percy ignored him, addressing himself to Ginny. "Hermione has quite the interesting family history, including a grandmother who died in Grindelwald's War."

"A lot of Mudbloods were killed then," Rodolphus shrugged. "We've barely made a dent in them, by comparison."

"Madam Zabini provided some documents to me which, while inconclusive, seem to show that Hermione's grandmother was a witch, a member of the magical _Resistenza_ that fought against Grindelwald and the Muggle fascists," Percy lectured.

For all her indifference to European magical history, and for all that she had resolved not to speak to Percy more than necessary, Ginny needed to know what this meant for her friend. "What happens if Hermione's a half-blood?" she asked.

"She'll be removed from the MRC's list. That's already happened for several individuals where I could establish the existence of a magical parent or grandparent," Percy replied precisely. "However, Malfoy has indicated that Hermione will remain with him, regardless of blood status."

"Of course, why wouldn't she?" Rodolphus asked belligerently. "Amycus and Flint have half-blood tarts. Witches need to know there are consequences for supporting the wrong side."

"Yes, the threat of being placed in sexual servitude should bring witches flocking to support the Dark Lord," Percy agreed with dry sarcasm.

Ginny snorted with laughter despite herself, causing Rodolphus to look at her furiously and crack his knuckles in a clear threat. He was a violent drunk, and he had been drinking - as usual - since lunchtime.

Rabastan uncharacteristically played peacemaker instead of egging his brother on. "Sounds like your Ministry job is a real hardship, Perce, if you get to rub elbows - or other body parts - with Magda Zabini," he guffawed, changing the subject. "She's still a looker, for all that she's my age. The rack she has on her!" He enthusiastically demonstrated the witch's dimensions with his hands.

"I have only corresponded with Madam Zabini by owl," Percy stated repressively.

"Magda the magnificent," Rabby went on with fervor, oblivious to Percy's sour disapproval. "I'd marry her in a heartbeat, if she'd have me."

"She won't," Rodolphus said as his brother shot him a poisonous look. "Magda likes her Dark wizards, but she won't accept a younger son."

Ginny thought that was a pity. Madam Zabini's husbands were a short-lived lot. Indeed, her body count when it came to Death Eaters was higher than most Aurors.

"Oh, well, at least Weasley's got no shot with her either," Rabastan waggled his eyebrows at Ginny's brother. "Being that he's a younger son and a ginger to boot. Unless you plan on killing off your two older brothers?"

"No more than you, Rabastan," Percy shot back, to the amusement of both the Lestrange brothers. As Ginny knew to her detriment, they shared a very twisted sense of humor.

"Seriously, have you been on any raids yet, Weasley?" asked Rodolphus. "We've got some offshoots of Dumbledore's Army and the Order that need to be crushed like the cockroaches they are."

Rabastan made a face. "The Dark Lord has us hopping all around the British Isles, trying to put out fires. Belfast is out of control, and there are rumors that clans - the McLaggens, the Macmillans, the MacDougals, and others - have put aside their differences and are going to rise up in the Highlands."

Ginny felt like cheering at that news. Seamus Finnigan, give his propensity for pyrotechnics, might literally be sending Death Eaters up in flames over in northern Ireland. His default tactics with Dumbledore's Army, which had proven effective, were to blow things up. Cormac McLaggen was a toe rag, and Ernie Macmillan was a pompous prat on the order of Percy, but she had to give both of them and their families credit for having the courage and loyalty to stand up to Voldemort.

Percy shook his head. "I'm afraid the Dark Lord recognizes my talents lie with the quill rather than the wand."

"Oh, I don't know about that," Rodolphus disagreed. "I heard you acquitted yourself well enough at the Battle of Hogwarts."

"I only did what I had to do," Percy demurred, rousing Ginny's temper that he could so callously describe killing their parents. Under the tea table, she tried a surreptitious Bat-Bogey Hex, but her wand would not cooperate. The safe-conduct held, protecting Percy from her as a Lestrange.

"We'll get you out from behind a desk, Percy, so you can see some real action," Rodolphus said with false geniality. "We've got plans against a nest of blood traitors here on the Cornish coast, and I could use an extra wand. I will speak to the Dark Lord on your behalf."

"It's a chance to get at a part-Veela," Rabastan added, temptingly. "And move up in your family's birth order."

With cold certainty, Ginny knew they were talking about Fleur and, by extension, Bill and whichever of her other brothers were living at Shell Cottage. She tried to think if there was some way she could warn them.

"That's very kind of you," Percy said, with patent insincerity, knowing he was trapped. "I'd be happy to help in any way I can."

Channeling her mother, Ginny gave him her fiercest glare, but Percy looked away, engaging Rodolphus with a question about the manor's architecture.

"Ginny, how are you really?" Percy asked towards the end of his visit, as they walked to the front door. Rodolphus and Rabastan had stayed in the parlor, lazily granting Ginny a few minutes alone with her brother.

She took the opportunity to tell him exactly what she thought of her situation. "How do you think I am, after spending a month as a Lestrange fuck toy?" Ginny hissed. "There's _nothing_ they haven't done to me. Most mornings I wake up wishing that you would have let them _Avada_ me - I'd be better off."

"I could never do that, Ginny. You're my baby sister!" Percy said, appalled.

"You're no brother of mine," she spat.

"Please, is there anything I can do to help?" Percy asked, concern written on every feature.

Back when she was a little firstie and he was Head Boy, she would have been touched. After all, Percy had been the only one of her brothers to notice something was wrong when she was possessed by the diary, even if he not been able to help her. Now, she sneered at his naïveté. "Oh, you've done _quite_ enough already, helping to make the bed I have to lie in with those vile snakes," Ginny hissed. "Now get out!"

When he hesitated on the threshold, she used her wand to push him outside, viciously slamming the door in his face.

Ginny shook her head at her own stupidity as she began to climb the stairs. She wanted nothing more than to sneak into her room and take a nap, but the loud noise would have alerted the two banes of her existence that she was on her way up. She made it up the stairs and more than halfway down the corridor, nearly to the shelter of her apple-green bedroom. Just as Ginny was beginning to hope the Lestrange brothers had passed out and would leave her alone for the afternoon, the door to the master suite opened and Rodolphus beckoned her in.

"Come here, Ginevra," he commanded.

She walked towards him on reluctant feet, knowing what was coming from the heated look in his eyes. Behind him, she caught a glimpse of Rabastan lounging on the bed, his hand in his unfastened trousers as he stroked himself.

"I think we deserve a reward for putting up with your twat of a brother for the last hour," Rodolphus grumbled, his hands heavy on her shoulders.

"I'm not feeling well," Ginny said truthfully. "I think I'm going to be sick."

"Precious Percy made me feel ill, too. We'll both feel better after a lie-down," Rabastan suggested with a leer, just before his brother spun her around so her back was to the massive bed.

"On your knees," Rodolphus ordered, shoving her down when she was slow to obey. Ginny closed her eyes at the sound of his zipper, not wanting to see him. "Open up, little red," he crooned. "Open up, or I'll break your jaw."

Hating him, and hating herself for her obedience, Ginny opened her mouth. Having her jaw bones repaired with Skelegrow was not an experience she wanted to repeat. She flattened her tongue and tried to relax her throat as Rodolphus began to thrust, hands tangled in her hair as he raped her mouth.

From behind, she heard the bed springs creak as Rabastan stood up. With a muttered word, he Vanished Ginny's ugly black dress. She shivered in her underthings, first from cold and then from revulsion as the younger Lestrange began to paw at her breasts. "Your tits feel bigger," he observed hotly in her ear.

"Like melons with freckles," Rodolphus concurred crudely. Her batted his younger brother's hands away and replaced them with his own, squeezing her breasts tightly enough to hurt. Ginny obstinately bit back any sound until he viciously twisted her nipples. Then she could not help but moan in pain, a muffled sound that made both brothers laugh.

"I think our bitch likes it," Rabastan said.

"I doubt it, but Salazar knows her moaning feels good on my cock," Rodolphus panted.

Ginny felt a stab of pure rage. She _hated_ them. Then she realized that Rodolphus had made a foolish mistake, placing himself in an extremely vulnerable position without first placing her under the Imperius Curse.

She bit down - _hard_.

Rodolphus screamed like a banshee. Ginny gagged and wrenched her head away as the coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, not minding her teeth in the slightest. He screamed again, and her delight in that sound was tempered only by the sudden need to vomit. She did her level best to aim for Rodolphus's polished boots, regretting only that her regurgitated cucumber sandwiches were not nearly so disgusting as he deserved.

"Bitch! You bit me!" he bellowed, backhanding her across the face, hard enough to send her sprawling on the floor at Rabastan's feet.

Ginny curled into a fetal position, protecting the baby, as Rodolphus aimed a hard kick at her prone body. His boot cracked into her ribs and she cried out from the pain and fear as Rabastan raised his wand, targeting her. "No, please!" she begged, knowing it was futile even as a pink jet of light hit her abdomen.

She braced herself for a pain that never came. Instead, the light brightened and Rabastan snapped his wand up, training it on his elder brother. " _Immobulus_!" he said, freezing Rodolphus with one leg extended back, preparatory to kicking Ginny again. With a casual push to the middle of the chest, Rabastan knocked his brother over. He then offered the same hand to Ginny, helping her up off the floor.

A gleeful grin split his face as he wrapped his arms possessively around her waist. "Congratulations, Roddy!" he announced. "You're going to be an uncle!"


	37. Percy's Portkey

**_May 31, 1998 - continued_**

For several minutes, Percy stood on the front steps of the Lestrange residence, staring at the iron-bound oaken door Ginny had slammed in his face. He was not so foolish as to try and force his way into the manor, since he assumed that would negate his safe-conduct, but he held onto a faint hope that his little sister's temper would cool and she would respond to his soft knocking by opening the door.

When he realized that hope was futile, Percy turned and trudged down the gravel path that led to the Apparition point outside the wards, his shoulders slumped as Ginny's words replayed in his mind. _Blood traitor. You're no brother of mine_. Even worse were the words she had used to describe herself. _A Lestrange fuck toy. There's nothing they haven't done to me. I'd better off if you would have let them Avada me_.

"Oh, Gin," Percy groaned softly, pinching his nose between his fingers as he tried to think if there was any way to help her, even in the face of her bitter denial that there was nothing he could do. Her deliberate metaphor - that she would have to lie in the bed he had helped make for her with both Lestrange brothers - made his stomach churn.

Before seeing her today, Percy had been able to rationalize to himself that Ginny at least had a measure of protection as a Death Eater's wife. In this cruel new world, she was better off than a slave like Hermione, who lived utterly at Malfoy's whim, or Hannah Abbott, who Carrow shared with any Death Eater who had two spare coins to rub together. But now Percy had seen his sister, for the first time since her marriage, and that rational, comparative analysis had flown out the window. Ginny was hurt, and being hurt, and he was at least partially at fault.

Percy shoved his hands in his pocket, deep in thought. A one-wizard rescue mission would be suicidal, but even with Fred's death, Ginny still had five other older brothers. She might claim she only had four, having made it clear she renounced Percy, but he still would be there for her. Charlie was off in Romania, but Percy thought that he, Bill, George and Ron could take out Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange with careful planning - if only he could persuade his brothers to trust him enough to enlist their help.

"Time to rally the ginger army," he muttered to himself, squaring his shoulders. Instead of Apparating directly to his destination, since that might be traced, he closed his eyes and thought of the Burrow.

Percy landed just outside the wards and resolutely kept his eyes from the derelict structure that used to be a home. He also refused to look over at the old oak tree that marked his parents' and Fred's gravesite. Instead, he stared at the ground and dug deep in his left trouser pocket until his hand connected with a Muggle keychain. He pulled it out, squinting at the depicted roller coaster. _Visit Blackpool_ , it suggested in garish colors. _Ride the Big One_.

His lips twisted in a smile at the message on the keychain, wondering if Audrey had caught the double meaning. She was undoubtedly a sharp witch, but also very sheltered. She had insisted on giving him the keychain - an unregistered Portkey, with the destination not yet programmed - even though it was worth her job if she got caught. Despite the magical safe-conduct the Lestrange brothers had given Percy, Audrey still had not trusted them. "Believe me, I know Death Eaters," she had informed Percy grimly. "I have two in my house, and you simply _cannot_ trust them."

Perhaps, once this was all over, he would take her to Blackpool, and they could stroll along the piers with the other tourists, trying the arcade games and riding the Muggle amusements, even the massive roller coaster. Percy thought she would enjoy that - unlike many pureblood witches, Audrey had a genuine curiosity about the Muggle world, despite her conservative upbringing.

With a vague feeling of disloyalty, Percy recalled that Penny had taken him to a Muggle amusement pier once, not Blackpool, but one closer to her home in West Sussex. He had had a surprisingly good time, holding her hand as they walked along and stealing kisses that tasted not unpleasantly of fried Muggle snacks.

Percy grimaced at the unconscious comparison. Audrey was already a good friend, and someday might be more. Their now-daily meals and conversations in the Ministry cafeteria were the brightest spots in his grim existence, and he found her intelligence and sarcastic wit undeniably appealing. However, when Percy dreamt at night, his dreams were of Penny, either pleasant ones that left him achingly lonely when he woke, or nightmares where she was captured and he was forced to watch and even participate in her torture.

Percy took a deep, bracing breath and shook his head to clear it of all thoughts of witches, pureblood or Muggleborn. Looking around the Burrow's property, he made sure it was deserted and cast a few spells to ensure that he was observed by no living creatures other than some birds and a couple of curious garden gnomes. Then he tapped the keychain with his wand, thinking of the name of the fishing village closest to Bill and Fleur's cottage. " _Portus_ ," he recited. The keychain briefly glowed blue and Percy grabbed it, feeling the familiar but still uncomfortable jerk behind his navel.

He landed awkwardly on a deserted beach, his palms stinging from the sharp stones mixed into the sand. Percy looked around as he got to his feet, noting a rocky outcropping shaped like a Grim that he had noticed on prior visits to Shell Cottage, and set off towards the north, wand in hand.

After ten minutes of wandering in circles, he felt utterly frustrated and befuddled, but also relieved and impressed with Bill's warding skills. He _knew_ the cottage should be nearby, in plain sight, but he could not see it or detect it with any of the spells he tried. Giving it up as a bad job, Percy shot red sparks in the air from his wand - a well-known surrender signal from childhood games with his siblings - and sat down cross-legged on the sand to wait for a response, his wand ostentatiously placed in front of him.

He did not have long to wait. "What do you want, Percy?" Bill growled from behind him. "If you're looking for absolution, you've come to the wrong church."

"I'm more of a proponent of atonement over absolution," Percy said, trying to maintain a level tone despite the prickling feeling between his shoulder blades that told him his eldest brother's wand was trained on his back. Still, he was fortunate to be dealing with Bill, who would at least hear him out. George or Ron would likely hex first and question after.

Percy stood and turned around slowly, keeping his hands up and his wand on the sand. "They're coming for you," he warned. "I don't know when, but the Lestrange brothers are planning a raid on Shell Cottage."

Bill shrugged, keeping his wand up. "I appreciate the warning, despite your new allegiance, but we're under the Fidelius. You and your Death Eater friends can wander up and down the beach for hours, right underneath the cottage, but you'll never find us."

"Can you trust your secret keeper?" Percy asked, urgently. "And they aren't my friends," he added in automatic denial.

"I'm the secret keeper," Bill grinned wolfishly. "Safe as Gringott's. Don't worry, little brother."

Percy relaxed fractionally. "Just be careful. They mentioned Fleur specifically."

"They'll touch her over my dead body," Bill snarled.

"Yes, well, I think that's the plan," Percy said dryly. "Stay behind the wards, within the Fidelius, no matter what the provocation, and it won't come to that."

Bill nodded sharply and lowered his wand, just a fraction. "Is that all?" he asked.

"No, Ginny needs our help. The Lestrange brothers - I think they're driving her mad," Percy blurted out his worst fear.

"Explain," Bill demanded, narrowing his eyes.

"The Dark Lord married Ginny to Rodolphus Lestrange at the revel following the Final Battle," Percy began.

"I know that," Bill said with impatience. "We have access to the _Prophet_. I read the official wedding announcement."

The two brothers' lips curled in near-identical expressions of disgust.

"Rodolphus beats her," Percy said bluntly. "He also shares her with Rabastan."

"Oh, Merlin," Bill said in horror. "Did they . . . did they break her?"

"Not our Ginny," Percy said with a perverse sort of pride. "She's not broken, but she's angry. So _very_ angry, and teetering on the edge of insanity. There's something dark about her, and unstable, like she'd stop at nothing . . . . "

"Is it the Cruciactus Curse?" Bill asked, surprisingly matter-of-fact. "Repeated exposure would do that."

"No, I extracted a wand oath from Rodolphus that they can't torture her, at least not that way. He and Rabastan also are bound not to kill her, or inflict any damage they can't heal themselves," Percy replied, the words bitter in his mouth. There still was far too much the Lestrange brothers could do to Ginny, and had done.

"You didn't do nearly enough for her," Bill said.

"I know." Percy looked down, ashamed.

"But you also did something, which is more than the rest of us can say," Bill allowed.

Percy shook his head in disagreement, but raised his eyes from the sand. "I have monthly access and a safe-conduct to the Lestrange estate," he offered.

Bill's eyes flashed. "Can you pick the date of your visit, maybe time it closer to the full moon?" One upside to having been mauled by Greyback was that Bill's senses and reflexes were heightened at that time of the month.

"Probably," Percy said.

"Good," said Bill. "I'll send you a Patronus when we've come up with a plan to help Gin. You can do the same if you think of anything."

"I can't," Percy admitted. "I've never learned the charm. I've read about the theory, of course, but I had Gilderoy Lockhart as my DADA professor my NEWT year." He left unsaid his conviction that he would be unable to cast a Patronus now, due to the Dark Mark on his arm.

"Ah," Bill said with understanding. "Well, then, take a walk on the beach if you want to talk."

Sounds of shouting and scuffling on the path leading to Shell Cottage drew his attention. "Oh, bloody hell," he said in exasperation as George and Ron raced towards the beach. "You'd better take your wand and go. I'll try to talk some sense into these idiots, so they don't curse you on sight."

Percy nodded and picked up his wand from the sand.

Bill's direct gaze shifted to Percy's left arm, where he bore the Dark Mark. "I couldn't believe it when I heard you had become a Death Eater, but now I may have an inkling why."

Percy's throat felt tight. "No absolution, remember?"

"I remember," Bill said. "I also will tell you that I learned far more about goblins and their weaknesses when I worked at Gringotts. I expect the Ministry is the same, no?"

Percy nodded, not trusting his voice.

"Well, keep up the good work then, little brother. You've always been the most diligent Weasley."

Reaching into his pocket, Percy thought of his empty and soulless little flat. " _Portus_ ," he said, activating the Portkey.


	38. Draco's Dubious Birthday Present

**A/N: references to potions abuse; dub-con**

 **June 5, 1998**

"This is stupid," Zacharias Smith whined.

"Shut it," Draco ordered, though he secretly agreed.

Greg grunted, a sound that might have indicated that he agreed with either or the both of them.

They were currently wasting an unusually beautiful Friday afternoon - Draco's birthday, to boot - patrolling Hogsmeade in full Death Eater regalia, searching for potential dissidents. He would much rather be flying around the Quidditch pitch, enjoying the capricious Scottish sunshine on the shores of the Black Lake, or trying to charm his way back into Granger's good books.

He knew their current patrol was a tremendous waste of time. Anyone inclined to oppose the Dark Lord was either dead or fled from the village. Not even Gryffindors were so suicidally stupid as to remain living next door to Hogwarts now that it was firmly under the control of Death Eaters. The only more dangerous place to live in wizarding Britain would be Malbourne, the magical hamlet in the shadow of Malfoy Manor, now the headquarters of the Dark Lord's regime. Draco grimaced at the needling reminder that Voldemort stalked the halls of his family's ancestral home as lord and master, with no Malfoys present to check him.

"I'm hot," Smith continued his litany of complaints. "Why do we have to wear masks, anyways? It's not like anyone at the Ministry is going to arrest us."

"It's not like anyone is going to be intimidated by your pimply face, so keep your mask on," Draco snapped at him.

"I'm hungry," Greg said plaintively, his stomach growling as proof.

"You're always hungry, you big lump," Smith sneered.

"Bugger off, Hufflepoof. Drake, when can we head back to the castle for dinner?" asked Greg. "It's already past six."

An evil smile crossed Draco's face. "You and I can go now. _Dear_ Zacharias can go just as soon as he finishes searching the goat pen behind the Hog's Head. Aberforth Dumbledore was a senior member of the Order of the Phoenix - there's no telling what he might have hidden under the goat manure." Like Theo and several others, Aberforth had gone missing after the battle at Hogwarts and was presumed dead.

"You can't - " spluttered Smith.

"I can," Draco confirmed. "I just did."

He walked away, chuckling, his arm slung over Goyle's beefy shoulder. He might have just turned eighteen, but Draco doubted he would ever be too old to enjoy a spot of Hufflepuff-baiting.

"How's your mum?" Greg asked once they had left Smith behind. From his hesitant tone, it was clear he was expressing concern, not just making conversation.

"I don't know," Draco confessed. "She sent me some chocolates for my birthday, but she wrote that she was indisposed and couldn't see me this weekend." He was no closer to finding out what was wrong with his mum, but the spidery state of her normally beautiful handwriting and her inability to see him had only sharpened his worries.

"I'm sorry," Greg said, his words sincere if inadequate.

Draco dipped his head in acknowledgement, and they continued their walk to Hogsmeade's main street in silence. Just in front of Honeyduke's, they ran across the Death Eater patrol that had taken the west side of the village.

"Anything of note, Malfoy?" asked Marcus Flint, pulling off his mask and wiping his brow.

"Nothing." Draco shook his head.

"Same here. Zabini, Longbottom - you two can head back up to the castle, or grab a pint at the Three Broomsticks if you want," Flint told the two younger Death Eaters. "Good job today, not that there was much to it."

Draco hid a smile, well-used to his former Quidditch captain's miserly praise.

"Where's Smith?" Blaise asked, his dark eyes - as usual - missing nothing.

"Up to his elbows in goat shit, if he knows what's good for him," Draco replied.

Marcus guffawed. "That two-faced prick deserves it," he opined.

"Yes," Blaise grinned in agreement, and even Longbottom's dour face brightened slightly.

"Drake, d'ya mind?" Goyle asked, looking towards Honeyduke's display window with longing.

"Go right ahead," Draco gave his permission.

Blaise waved a languid hand. "I'm off to Hogwarts. See you at dinner?"

Draco nodded and Zabini sauntered away.

"I think I'll check on Smith, make sure he's doing a thorough job searching through the goat shit," Longbottom offered, somewhat to Draco's surprise. The Gryffindor loped off without waiting for a response.

"Can you trust them together?" Flint asked curiously. "A Gryff and a 'Puff?"

"There's no love lost there," Draco stated with confidence. "Smith is shagging Longbottom's girlfriend - rents her by the hour from Carrow."

Marcus nodded safely. "No fucking way they're conspiring together, then."

"No," Draco agreed.

"Longbottom's a hard 'un. He may murder Smith and bury him in the goat pen," Flint predicted.

Draco shrugged. "No great loss, so long as he doesn't get caught." Then Granger would be even more adamant that he had to step up and become the Chosen One.

"Have a drink with me," Flint half-suggested, half-ordered, jerking his head in the direction of the Three Broomsticks.

"Alright," Draco agreed, curious as to what Marcus wanted. They were former Quidditch teammates, but by no means friends. "You can buy me a round for my birthday."

Inside the pub, Flint ordered Firewhisky for them both, an order that Madam Rosmerta scampered to fill. Draco sardonically thought that good service was one fringe benefit of taking the Dark Mark.

"So, er, how're things with Granger?" Marcus asked awkwardly.

Draco pasted a smirk on his face. "Wonderful. I love having a sexy, swotty Mudblood at my beck and call. The mouth she has on her . . . . " He trailed off, giving Flint the misimpression that he was referring to oral sex rather than Granger's tongue-lashings. The witch had not been pleased to discover that he had saved a Horcrux from destruction, and Draco's protests that he had only been following the Dark Lord's orders had fallen on deaf ears. He needed to figure out what Nuremberg had to do with it, even though Granger's attitude in the weeks since he had told her about Ravenclaw's diadem made it clear she found his defense wholly unpersuasive.

"Lucky you," Marcus said sourly.

"Are you having trouble with Bell?" Draco queried, after taking a moment to remember the Gryffindor Chaser's name.

Flint laughed without humor. "Oh, sure, we're just peachy, so long as I keep feeding her lust potions or Amorentia."

"Doesn't her brand make her obey and want to please you?" Draco asked. Granger struggled with that, and he doubted Flint's witch was nearly so strong-willed.

"My dad branded her, so Katie's bound to him, not me. He told her she has to do what I want, but she just lies there and thinks of England, unless I've given her a potion," Marcus explained.

"I'd go easy on the Amorentia - it can have some negative effects long-term," Draco advised, hiding his vague distaste at Flint's use of the love potion.

Marcus nodded. "Especially because I'm trying to knock her up. I know Amorentia's bad for the sprog. But it would be nice to have Katie look at me like I'm not a troll."

Draco blinked. He was not surprised Flint was trying to get Bell pregnant - the Dark Lord had made it clear that he wanted his followers to start producing the next generation of Death Eaters. Nor was he surprised that Marcus craved Bell's affection - his crush on the Gryffindor Chaser had been the worst-concealed secret on the Slytherin Quidditch team. But Draco had not expected Flint, a less than stellar Potions student, to know that particular obscure fact about Amorentia. "It can be," he agreed. "There are several historical examples of dangerously disturbed wizards and witches who were conceived while a parent was under the influence of Amorentia."

"Like the Dark Lord, if you believe the _Quibbler_ ," Marcus whispered, knocking back more of his Firewhisky.

"I think it would be dangerous for anyone to believe anything published in that rag," Draco warned, taking a cautious sip of his own drink.

"Yeah, I know." Flint sighed, returning to the previous subject. "I just want Katie to like me, how Granger likes you."

"I'm not an agony aunt, Marcus," Draco cautioned. "And I don't know if Granger exactly likes me." He knew she still had not forgiven him for sealing Potter's fate by swapping out the real Horcrux for a fake diadem, and she also was frustrated that they had no leads as to what the Dark Lord had done with the real diadem after Draco handed it over like a good little soldier. "But maybe try to do some things with Bell that she likes, instead of just shagging her. She's a good Chaser - find a pitch, ward it so she can't fly off, and let her have some fun. Treat her like a witch you're trying to score with, not a slave who has to do what you want."

"Yeah, yeah. That might work," Marcus said hopefully. He finished his drink and stood to go. "I think I'll head back to Katie now and give it a try."

"Good luck," Draco offered, hiding his internal pessimism. Really, the solution to Flint's problem was to stop coercing Bell to have sex with him, not the Draco could give him that advice without drawing suspicion onto himself.

He jogged back to Hogwarts, making it to the Great Hall as dinner was ending. He was pleased to see that Granger was seated next to Goyle, who must have fetched her from their chambers. She still was too thin to go skipping meals, but he also had warned her against walking the halls alone. Carrow was so free with Hannah Abbott's favors that Draco worried some of his classmates might think Granger was fair game, too.

He sat down next to Granger, wrapping one long arm around her waist to squeeze her close. He nuzzled her neck, smirking at how her pulse picked up from his antics. Extensive role-playing had blurred the line between fiction and fantasy for both of them. "I wish I could have taken you to Hogsmeade, pet. It would've been much more fun," he purred in her ear.

"But then I would have missed out on an afternoon studying in the library," she replied with a toss of her head, twisting away to hand him a plate made up with all his favorites.

He dug in with an appetite. "Thanks, Granger," he said, with genuine appreciation, choosing to focus on her actions rather than her words.

Dinner passed quickly and in relative silence at the senior end of the Slytherin table, with Draco, Blaise, Greg and Smith - snake by default, since he was no longer welcome at the Hufflepuff table - all tired and footsore from hours marching around Hogsmeade. Pudding had just disappeared from the table and Draco was preparing to take Granger and go when Greg slid a box of Chocolate Frogs in front of him.

"Happy birthday, Drake," he said gruffly.

Blaise handed him an unwrapped box from Scrivenshaft's, which, by its size and shape, contained a new quill. "Just a little token - my mother took care of the main gift."

"And it's much appreciated," Draco said with sincerity. Magda Zabini had obtained, through methods better left unexamined, Italian documents giving Granger a witch for a grandmother. If Draco ever fell from favor, or if Rookwood decided to renege on their agreement, Granger still would be safe from the Unspeakables and their experiments.

"I didn't realize it was your birthday, Malfoy," Granger apologized, flushed with embarrassment. "I didn't get you anything - I'm so sorry!"

"It's alright, pet." Draco winked at her. "You can make it up to me later."

"Speaking of that," Smith snickered, "I slipped her a lust potion as my present to you, Drake." He lowered his voice so Goyle would not overhear. "It's the same one I use on Abbott - your Mudblood will be begging for it in every hole." He gave Draco a grin that was meant to be ingratiating. "I noticed she's been a bit feisty, but this will bring her back in line."

Draco looked at Granger in horror. She looked almost feverish, with her brown eyes - normally shining with intelligence - glazed over. She leaned against him, panting softly and clinging in a manner that reminded him of Pansy at her worst.

"I won't forget this, Smith," Draco promised, as Granger's hand crept up his thigh. The Hufflepuff preened, clearly oblivious to Draco's real meaning. "Now go take a shower - you smell like a goat's arse."

He turned to Granger. "C'mon, pet. Let's get you to bed." She came along docilely enough, other than her wandering hands.

"Hands to yourself, Granger," Draco ordered just outside the Great Hall, his self-control already worn perilously thin by her stroking and rubbing. They were not even in the dungeons yet, but he was struggling not to throw her up against a wall and shove her skirt up, taking what he had wanted for weeks now and what she currently was so eager to give. Looking into her eyes stopped him, since Granger so clearly was not herself.

She pouted at the command but obeyed. Then, much to his consternation, she began unbuttoning her blouse, revealing a pale blue cotton bra.

"Granger, keep your clothes on," he hissed.

Her pout deepened, but she did up her shirt, much to his relief. "But I'm hot," she whimpered.

"Go to the bedroom and get changed into something more comfortable," Draco instructed once they reached their chambers. During their walk through the dungeons, he had formulated a half-arsed sort of plan.

Granger obeyed, sashaying off to their bedroom. "Hurry, please," she requested, giving him a heated look over her shoulder.

Draco took a deep breath, trying to calm himself, before rummaging through Snape's potions cupboard. Dreamless Sleep was too obvious, with its distinctive purple color, but there was a weaker sleeping draught that looked just like water. He poured a measure into a conjured glass, using a few simple charms to alter the color and flavor slightly to mimic a common contraceptive potion.

He nearly dropped the glass at the sight of her when he walked into the bedroom. "Oh, fuck! Granger, you're going to be the death of me."

She was sprawled on the sheets, wearing a scanty bra and matching panties that she must have transfigured from her pastel cotton. He had seen enough of Pansy's lingerie over the years to know that his ex-girlfriend favored frilly, pink unmentionables, but Granger was wearing nothing but three strategically placed triangles of material in Slytherin green, made out of a silk so sheer that he could make out her nipples. The amount of golden skin on display was mouth-watering and the delicate silver chains connecting the silky triangles reminded him, on a primal level, that she was his slave and he could do to her whatever he wished.

"Malfoy, please," she said with a sultry smile, holding her arms out to him.

A more advanced part of his brain noted the vacant look in her eyes and a telltale slackness to her jaw. Draco quite firmly told himself that even Marcus Flint - who possessed all the sensitivity and intelligence of a Bludger - knew that it was wrong to use potions to coerce a witch's sexual favors, even if said witch was the embodiment of his randiest fantasies.

"Drink up, pet," he directed, handing her the glass at arm's length. "I don't want to make any babies when I fuck you."

She downed the potion immediately, without comment, another sign of her compromised state. Granger _always_ asked questions.

"Tastes fruity," she commented, licking her lips.

He was transfixed by that darting pink tongue, and she noticed. "Would you like me to suck - "

Draco cut her off with a kiss, rationalizing as his tongue tangled with hers that kissing was authorized conduct. He could snog her for the few minutes it took until the potion made her sleep, and she would hopefully not want to kill him or die from mortification once she sobered up. However, he had not taken into account Granger's quick, nimble little hands or her obstinate determination to get him into bed. She pulled him down on top of her and had his shirt unbuttoned before he could break off the kiss to protest.

"Slow down - we have all night," he admonished.

She shook her head, wild curls tickling his bare chest. "I want you _now_." She was unbuckling his belt and delving into his trousers and Draco knew he was perilously close to doing something unforgivable.

"Uh-unh," he grunted, grabbing Granger's questing hands and pinning them above her head.

Rather than objecting, she squirmed with pleasure underneath him and spread her legs in wanton invitation. "Please, Draco," she whined. "Please fuck me."

"It's not like you to beg," he observed, desperately trying to distract himself from the warmth and wetness he could feel even through his boxer shorts and whatever skimpy fabric she had between her legs. _A real wizard never takes advantage of a witch_ , his mother had always taught him. Draco repeated that mantra in his head. _A real wizard never takes advantage of a witch. Not even a sexy Mud- Muggleborn._ It took more willpower than actual physical strength to pull himself away from Granger's body and flip her onto stomach.

"Draco," she squealed in surprised protest. He realized that was the second time in a row she had used his given name, something she never did other than as part of a safe phrase.

"I want to try something, but I need you to be relaxed," he said softly, running his hands down her sides, stopping to trace the runes low on her back with a fingertip.

"Alright," she agreed breathlessly. "Whatever you want."

Draco felt vaguely sick at her potions-induced compliance. "Just lay still," he told her, continuing to glide his hands up and down her back. After a few minutes that only _seemed_ interminable, Granger's body went limp under his hands. Draco rolled her to one side, silently thanking Merlin that the sleeping potion had _finally_ taken effect. With a flick of his wand, he pulled the sheet up to cover her from neck to toes, hiding her enticing body from his sight.

He stomped off towards the shower, his erection jutting out of his still-undone trousers, frustrated beyond measure that he would be celebrating his birthday with his own hand while the witch he wanted was snoring softly in their bed. "Happy fucking birthday to me," Draco muttered sourly.


	39. Hermione Makes a Good Decision

**June 6, 1998**

On Saturday morning, Hermione woke up early but with a vague fuzziness in her head, as though she had consumed one too many Butterbeers the night before. She knew she had drunk nothing stronger than pumpkin juice, and was puzzled for just a moment until the prior evening's events came rushing back.

"Smith," she hissed in the silence of the dimly lit bedroom, realizing who had spiked her pumpkin juice. She couldn't kill the the smarmy git, but she would make sure he lived to regret that act. An evil grin - one that Malfoy would have quite admired - crossed Hermione's face at the thought of a certain parchment folded in the depths of her beaded bag, and how that could be used to deliver an appropriate punishment.

The dungeons maintained a cool climate even on the warmest of spring and summer days, and Hermione had gone to bed much more scantily clad than usual, but the notion of Malfoy and his admiration made her feel hot enough to counteract the chill of the room. Closing her eyes, she recalled the way his jaw had dropped when he had seen her spread across the bed the night before. Opening her eyes and glancing under the sheets, she saw that her Transfigured lingerie had held up overnight. That was more embarrassing than impressive, Hermione decided, particularly since Malfoy had one hand cupping a breast and the other settled between her legs. She could feel the warmth of his palms through the sheer silk.

She grinned. "Not such a perfect gentleman when you're fast asleep, Malfoy," she teased the sleeping wizard. The grin faded when she remembered she had done far more than tease him the night before - she had wantonly offered herself and groped him with the persistence of a Venomous Tentacula. Some of her behavior could be blamed on sleazy Smith and his lust potion, but not all or even most of it. Weeks into their conspiracy, sharing a bed every night and role-playing master and slave every day, the sexual tension between herself and Malfoy was stretched to the breaking point.

What would happen if she snapped it? Experimentally, Hermione ground her bum into Malfoy's groin. Even in his sleep, a happy expression flitted across his normally stoic features and the hand on her breast tightened, keeping her close. Sex with Ron during the months leading up to war had proven to be a distraction, injecting emotions into their relationship that he at least had not been mature enough to handle. Craning her head to look at the sleeping wizard behind her, Hermione knew that immaturity would not be a problem with Malfoy. Despite having just turned eighteen, he was a man rather than a boy, and had been carrying a man's burdens since sixth year. Intensity, not immaturity, would be what she and Malfoy struggled with.

What was the worst that could happen, though? Hermione had been analyzing that question for weeks now, ever since Malfoy had suggested that they make their sham relationship a real one. They already were bound together intimately, though not sexually, through her brand and their shared goals. Malfoy might feel more protective towards a lover than a mere co-conspirator, but self-preservation was too ingrained in his character for him to do something that would endanger himself.

And they were highly compatible, given that both possessed a ruthless intelligence and certain willingness to do what had to be done. She was a bit disconcerted about the allure the Dark Arts held for him - he actually thought Horcruxes were a clever insurance policy rather an abomination - but on the whole she had much more common ground with Malfoy than she had ever shared with Ron or Viktor.

Pregnancy would not be an issue, since Hermione had a supply of Muggle birth control pills in her beaded bag and could always Gemimo more, even though the Wizengamot in its infinite idiocy had banned contraceptive charms and potions at Voldemort's behest. That brought her back full circle to the risk of unwanted distraction in the task of defeating the Dark Lord, but Hermione was finding her fantasies about sex with Malfoy to be just as diverting as actual intercourse had been with Ron. As she eyed the sleeping blond next to her, she decided that she had always been good at compartmentalization, and Malfoy was very much the same.

Decision made, she ghosted her hand over the silk of his boxers, feeling his cock twitch in eager response. Delicately, she pulled it out from the front of his shorts. Malfoy would murder her if she ever said it aloud, but Hermione thought that his penis was perfectly adorable in its current semi-soft state. She kissed the pink tip and began to take him into her mouth, suckling softly at first and then harder as she felt his cock harden and grow from her ministrations.

A sudden jerk outwards, rather than a sleepy, subconscious thrusting inwards, was Malfoy's initial response as he awoke, followed by a panicked question. "Granger, what the fuck?" he exclaimed, sitting bolt upright and looking down with wide grey eyes. "That Merlin-damned potion should have worn off by now!"

She popped off and rolled her eyes at him. "Of course it should have, and it did. The Ashwinder eggs are only potent for an hour or two, likely less because they would have been counteracted by the valerian in the sleeping draught you had me drink. I'm perfectly in control of my own faculties now, thank you," she sniffed in mild irritation.

From the gobsmacked look on Malfoy's face, she might as well have answered in Mermish. "You remember what happened last night, right?" he asked tentatively. "And you don't mind?"

"Of course I remember," she said testily. "Lust potions don't cause memory loss as a side effect, though I'm sure people like Smith wish they did. I mind what he did, very much, but _you_ were a perfect gentleman."

"Yes, well, virtue is its own reward," Malfoy said sourly.

"Not always," Hermione said with a sly smile and meaningful glance at his erection. "Sometimes there are fringe benefits for doing what is right, rather than what is easy."

After a moment's assessment to be certain the lust potion truly had worn off, Malfoy relaxed back against the pillows. "Well, carry on then," he said airily.

Hermione was determined that she would shred that cool facade before they were done. Instead of a verbal rejoinder, she reached back and unhooked her Transfigured bra. Malfoy's eyes immediately dropped to her bared breasts, his pupils dilated. While he was distracted, Hermione pulled his boxers off and then lowered her head to his groin. She licked him from base to tip before slowly taking the full length of his cock into her mouth, watching his face all the while. Once the head of his cock hit the back of her throat, his eyes rolled back in his head and fluttered shut, to her immense satisfaction.

"Oh, Salazar. Oh, fuck," Malfoy moaned. "Don't stop. Please, Granger. Don't fucking stop."

She didn't, continuing to suck and bob her head, relishing the contrast between his refined accent and crude words, along with the way his aristocratic hands were knotted in the sheets as he sought to maintain some semblance of self-control. Hermione wanted those hands tangled in her hair, pulling and tugging as Malfoy took whatever pleasure he wanted from her mouth, but decided that could wait for another time. Instead, she began to fondle his sac while intensifying her efforts with her mouth, holding the head of his cock deep in her throat while humming, both in satisfaction and to provide him with further stimulation.

A strangled cry of her name was her only warning as Malfoy arched off the sheets, spilling into her mouth. Hermione smiled as she swallowed, smug at how swiftly she had made him come undone.

"Sorry," he said sheepishly, once he had recovered enough to speak with coherence. "I should have told you I was getting close, but I forgot myself."

"That was the point, Malfoy," Hermione said, admiring the flexing of his abdominal muscles as he panted slightly, collapsed flat on the sheets. She prided herself on excelling at whatever she put her mind to, and that included fellatio. It helped that she had dated Viktor Krum, international Quidditch star, off and on for nearly two years, since he had been a patient teacher with vast knowledge acquired from his bevy of groupies.

"Give me a moment and I'll return the favor," Malfoy offered.

"No need," Hermione shrugged. She much preferred giving oral sex to receiving. "I'd rather go straight to shagging."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Given your lack of enthusiasm for having me go down on you, I can only assume that Weasley wasn't doing it right. Having seen his table manners, I can't say I'm surprised."

Hermione's silence was confirmation enough. Lazily, Malfoy dipped a finger beneath her sheer green knickers. "Sucking me off gets you wet," he observed. "I want to taste what I caused. I assure you that my manners - both when dining and otherwise - are impeccable."

"Well, carry on then," she mimicked him from earlier, scooting back against the pillows and trying to relax as Malfoy peeled off her knickers and placed his hands inside her knees to spread her legs wide. She felt uncomfortable being so exposed, for a sexual act that had been wet and sloppy with Ron and uncomfortably ticklish with Viktor, due to his ever-present stubble.

Looking up from between her legs, Malfoy smirked. "You're gorgeous, Granger." Before she could contradict him, his tongue was on her and his fingers were in her, and it was Hermione's turn to be reduced to clutching the sheets and babbling his name. He made her come twice, and Hermione thought he would have continued for a third round, if she had not begged for his cock in filthy and explicit terms.

"I didn't know you knew those sorts of words, Granger," Malfoy laughed, swiping her juices from his face with the back of his hand and looking supremely self-satisfied as he knelt between her sprawled legs.

"My vocabulary is vast," Hermione mumbled, recovering from her second orgasm. Peeking from underneath half-closed eyelids, she saw that Malfoy was once again fully erect and ready to go. She bit her lips at the sight of his cock - longer than Viktor's and thicker than Ron's, and she desperately wanted it inside her.

"You're not a virgin?"

It more of a statement than a question - given how deeply Malfoy's fingers had been buried in her, he would have felt it if her hymen had still been intact - but Hermione shook her head anyways. "No, I'm not," she confirmed, not sure of his reaction. Malfoy could be very possessive, not to mention mercurial.

"Good," he said, surprisingly. His eyes swept over her naked body and darkened. "Then I don't have to worry about taking it easy on you."

She opened her mouth to tell him that it had been months since she had last had sex, ever since that November night when Ron had flung the Horcrux locket over his head and run out in a tantrum, and to ask Malfoy to be gentle. But staring into his storm-cloud eyes, Hermione realized she didn't want gentle. "No, you don't have to take it easy on me," she agreed.

"Flip over," Malfoy ordered, with a hand on her hip and an anticipatory smirk on his face.

It took every scrap of Gryffindor obstinacy Hermione possessed to hold back. She wanted to obey, to drop eagerly to her hands and knees and present herself like a submissive bitch for a deep and thorough fucking, but instead she shook her head.

"Ask me nicely."

"Granger, please would you roll over?" Malfoy complied immediately, albeit with a roll of his eyes.

This time, she did as he bade, shivering slightly with anticipation as she braced herself for that first, hard thrust. Instead, Malfoy ran his hands slowly down her sides, pausing at the brand low on her back, echoing his gesture from the night before. She felt a jolt of desire as he traced the runes he had burned into her skin with a fingertip. _Bad faith. Pure blood._ That was Malfoy. He switched the order. _Bad blood. Pure faith._ That was her.

"Are you sure you want this?" he breathed into her ear, waiting patiently for her answer even as the broad head of his cock prodded at her entrance.

Hermione was certain, her earlier doubts now evaporated. "I want you," she said.

That was all he needed to slam forward, fully sheathing himself in her silky heat. She cried out from the intensity of it, while Malfoy growled in pleasure. "Fuck, you're tight."

His hands tightened on her hips as he pulled out and thrust back in. He repeated the motion, increasing speed and depth as Hermione pressed back against him, wanting to take everything he had to give. She was so sensitized from earlier that she quickly was at her edge. Reaching back, a quick rub and light pinch from her own fingers had her inner walls clenching around Malfoy's cock as she came for a third time.

He paused deep inside her as she rode out her climax, nipping and sucking at her neck to leave a visible mark. Hermione squealed with surprise as Malfoy abruptly pulled out and flipped her onto her back, pinning her arms above her head. "Next time, I'm going to be the one who makes you come," he promised.

He held her wrists in one hand and re-entered her body, taking his time as she writhed underneath him. He fucked her slow and deep, their sweat-slick chests gliding against each other with a delightful friction. Hermione felt a familiar pressure building deep in her core, and began to beg Malfoy. "Please . . . harder . . . faster . . . more," she gasped against the side of his neck.

He was pleased to follow her instructions, slamming into her body with increasing force. Hermione knew she would be deliciously sore for days, and simply didn't care. She had never been able to come from penetration alone, but Malfoy soon had her right on the cusp. When he used his free hand to prop one of her legs on his shoulder, still holding her wrists as he fucked her into the mattress, the new angle sent her screaming over the edge. Three more hard thrusts and he followed, pulling out at the last second to spill on the sheets and the inside of her thighs.

"Sorry," he muttered, Scourgifying the mess. "It's worth my bollocks to cast a Contraceptive Charm - Dark Lord's orders."

"It's alright," she mumbled from her prone position on the bed. "I'm using Muggle protection. Next time you can come inside me."

Malfoy propped himself up on one elbow, focused on her face. "Next time?" he asked, grey eyes surprisingly soft with concern. "So I take it you don't have any regrets?"

She shook her head and rolled towards him, tucking her head against his lean chest. "Best decision I ever made."


	40. Neville Comes to a Realization

_**June 8, 1998**_

Neville couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something had changed. Maybe it was just a different perspective, sitting here at the Slytherin table next to Goyle and across from Zabini, instead of being isolated among the lions, but he thought there was more to it than that.

Throughout the weekend, Hermione had been conspicuous by her absence from the library, despite exams being a mere two weeks away. Neville was not sure she would even be allowed to sit for her NEWTs, despite her newfound half-blood status, but that had not stopped her before from studying intensively and chivvying the rest of them along, Goyle included.

All weekend long, Malfoy also had made himself scarce. Neville had not caught even a flash of his platinum hair until now, at breakfast on Monday. The blond wizard had even foregone his usual appearance in the Slytherin dormitories at dawn, allowing Neville and the others to enjoy a rare lie-in instead of their usual calisthenics.

Speaking of the devil, Malfoy sauntered into the Great Hall. Hermione followed in his wake with deceptive meekness, giving Neville a furtive smile.

"Longbottom, glad you got my note and decided to join us," Malfoy drawled, taking his usual seat at the Slytherin table. He poured two glasses of pumpkin juice, while Hermione began preparing his breakfast, sipping from one and pushing the other in front of her.

Blaise's eyes tracked the glass of juice and a knowing smile crossed his face, but Neville was too busy looking at the fresh bruises encircling Hermione's wrists to notice. Malfoy had her wearing a short-sleeved blouse today, publicly displaying how he used her in private.

With eyes downcast, she handed him a plate piled high with larger than usual helpings of his favorites. "How'd you ever guess I'd be feeling peckish, pet?" the blond wizard asked with a mocking lilt, giving her bottom a pat before she sat down next to him.

Neville felt a now-familiar rage building and clenched his fists, trying to think of a spell within the limited repertoire available to him that would cause Malfoy to choke on his bacon and eggs. He growled in frustration as he remembered his promise to Hermione that he would not hurt the Death Eating ferret. He hated to see her acting so servile.

Then it struck him with the force and suddenness of a Bludger - _she was acting_.

"Blimey!" he blurted out, his mind spinning with speculation. If Hermione was acting like a docile slave, did that mean Malfoy was acting, too? Could he be another unwilling Death Eater, working to bring down Voldemort in secret? A potential ally?

"Longbottom!" snapped Malfoy.

Neville looked up and found himself caught in those cold, silver eyes.

"For fuck's sake!" Malfoy swore. "Your thoughts are giving me a migraine, Longbottom. Greg, see if you can teach him how to Occlude."

He broke eye contact with Neville and deliberately turned his back on him, whispering something in Hermione's ear.

" _You're_ going to teach me Occlumency?" Neville asked Goyle, not even trying to hide his skepticism.

"I guess. Draco said I had to try," Goyle grunted, equally doubtful.

"It's not that hard," Zabini said with a shark-like grin that Neville found far from reassuring. "If a thickhead like Greg can master Occlumency, surely even a Gryffindor like yourself can grasp the basics."

"Don't be a tosser, Zabini," Goyle said in reproof. "It's not Longbottom's fault no one taught him when he was a kid. It's harder to learn when you're older," he explained to Neville. "Just try to think you're something really stupid, like a rock."

"Easy for you," Neville muttered.

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it," Zabini suggested breezily. "Personally, I like to think of myself as a snake. Look into a python's eyes and what do you see? Nothing but a blank, deadly stare. Though you seem more like a toad to me," he added in an offhand insult.

"A toad, yeah," Goyle said with something close to enthusiasm. "That's your familiar, right?"

"It was," Neville said. Trevor had disappeared early in the school year, probably murdered by some Slytherin and used for potions ingredients.

"So just think of eating flies, and hopping, and shite like that," Goyle advised, oblivious to the harshness in Neville's voice hiding his pain. "Imagine having lots of warts."

"Speaking of warts, here comes Smith," Zabini warned.

"Ask him about Dumbledore's Army," Hermione hissed from across the table.

"Why?" Neville asked, puzzled but willing.

"Not you, Nev. It needs to be someone who was on the Inquisitorial Squad," she replied.

"I've got this," Blaise said with a wink as Zacharias arrived at the Slytherin table.

"Good weekend?" Smith greeted them with an oily smile that made Neville's hackles rise.

"No thanks to you," Malfoy dismissed the Hufflepuff.

"Hey, Zach, is it true that you can cast a Patronus?" Zabini asked.

"Yeah," Smith bragged. "I learnt it back in fifth year."

"From Umbridge?" Goyle asked with seeming stupidity. "She never taught us anything like that in DADA."

Blaise smirked. "I've seen Umbridge's Patronus when I've pulled guard duty at the Ministry. Dolores must have really liked you, Zach, to show you her pussy."

"It wasn't Umbridge!" Smith protested in horror. "Potter taught me, as part of Dumbledore's Army."

From across the table, Neville saw Hermione's satisfied smirk and her gesture to Zabini and Goyle to keep going.

"So if you can cast a Patronus, does that mean everyone in the D.A. can do it?" Goyle asked.

"Of course not!" Smith said pompously. "It's a difficult charm. Longbottom never managed it."

"Not until this year," Neville contradicted mildly, trying to keep his eyes off Smith's forehead. His sheepdog had taken corporeal form only after he had become the D.A.'s _de facto_ leader, long after Smith had quit. "But others got it straightaway."

"Yes, we 'Puffs have quite a knack for it," Zacharias bragged, his whiny voice grating on Neville's ears. "Susan Bones was one of the first, with a squirrel. Macmillan's Patronus is a boar, though I doubt the poor bastard can cast it now. Same thing with Abbott - hers was a robin, but I doubt she's thinking many happy thoughts these days."

Hermione glared at him. "No thanks to you. Quite the shining example of Hufflepuff loyalty you are."

With a smug, meaningful glance at her bruised wrists and a livid love bite on her neck, Smith went on, taunting her. "Granger's Patronus used to be an otter. Is it now a ferret? Do you think happy thoughts about Malfoy pounding you into the mattress when you cast it?"

Goyle grunted angrily, and Zabini whistled low. "That's dangerous, insulting Malfoy and his witch like that," he commented in a low voice.

"More like insanely stupid," Neville agreed, talking out of the corner of his mouth. "Though I think Hermione's the more dangerous of the two."

"The female of the species is always more deadly than the male," Blaise spoke knowingly.

Goyle grunted again, this time in agreement.

Hermione's hair practically bristled in anger, and her eyes flashed, looking more amber than brown. Malfoy looked amused and - to Neville's disgust - a bit turned on by her temper. "Do you want to share what form _your_ Patronus takes, Zacharias? Or shall I tell them?"

"It's a ram," he said, quick and defensive.

"No, it's a _sheep_ ," Hermione corrected with a sneer. "A follower, a weak animal that will panic and stampede and trample anyone in its path to ensure its own safety."

"Bitch," Smith shot back. "Death Eater's whore."

Goyle moved restlessly on the bench next to him, probably itching to punch Smith again. Neville knew the feeling only too well.

"Apologize to Granger," Malfoy ordered coolly. "She isn't a whore."

"Sorry," Smith muttered under his breath. "She is a bitch, though!" he added defiantly.

"I can be," Hermione agreed, just as cool as Malfoy. "While you're merely a sneak and a traitor," she smirked, reading the words off Smith's erupting forehead.

Neville's eyes followed the insults as they moved across Smith's forehead. _Sneak. Traitor. Disgrace to Hufflepuff. I need a potion to get it up. My dick is half the length of my wand_.

"The last two are mine," Malfoy said smugly. In that moment, Neville almost liked him.

"Is it true?" Blaise asked with curiosity. "How do you know?"

"Witches talk, and Granger listens," the blond said cagily. Neville realized Hermione probably had been providing Hannah with a shoulder to cry on, and that Hermione in turn had been venting to Malfoy.

"What did you do to me?" Smith cried, clapping his hand to his forehead to try and hide the boils there.

Neville could see the scrolling insults in the gaps between his fingers. _Sneak. Traitor. Disgrace to Hufflepuff. I need a potion to get it up. My dick is half the length of my wand_. He laughed out loud, for the first time in more than a month. "You just betrayed Dumbledore's Army, Smith."

"There's a curse on the parchment we all signed," Hermione explained to the Hufflepuff. "I tweaked it, with Malfoy's help, just for you. It tells anyone who can read exactly what they need to know about you."

"'Sneak. Traitor. Disgrace to Hufflepuff. He needs a potion to get it up. Smith's dick is half the length of his wand,'" Zabini paraphrased with relish, chortling. He laughed harder as the Hufflepuff tried to hide his wand up his sleeve, while everyone at the table measured it with their eyes. "Sounds about right to me, though I would have added 'annoying wanker.'"

"It's a modified Protean charm, combined with an oathbreaker's curse. That limits it to a hundred characters," Hermione explained apologetically.

"Still, it's brilliant," Blaise praised her with enthusiasm. In that moment, Neville almost liked him, too.

"Do the boils hurt?" Goyle asked hopefully.

"They should," Hermione said, as Smith whimpered in confirmation before bolting from the Great Hall, heading in the direction of the Hospital Wing.

"Good," Goyle said firmly, with a quick glance to the High Table.

Without looking, Neville knew that Carrow was there, eating his breakfast and ignoring the antics of the junior Death Eaters, but Hannah was missing. He knew that meant she either had not yet been returned by whatever punter had rented her out the night before, or that she was recovering in the infirmary.

"I hope Hannah's okay. I wish she could have seen this. Smith's been a real prick towards her," Goyle said, echoing Neville's thoughts.

"She'll see it," Hermione reassured the hulking Slytherin. "Marietta Edgecombe's boils haven't faded yet, and it's been two years. Smith is scarred for life unless I share the counter-curse."

"Good," Goyle said again, with greater vehemence. "I hope you never fix it."

Neville decided he was three for three in almost liking the Slytherin boys this morning. "Malfoy, is this why you told me to sit with you snakes for breakfast?" he asked.

The blond raised an eyebrow. "It wasn't for the pleasure of your company. I thought you'd enjoy the show," he answered simply.

"I did," Neville admitted. "Thank you, Hermione."

"It was my pleasure," the witch said modestly. "Besides, Smith deserved it," she added viciously.

"But why would _you_ do that for _me_?" Neville persisted, looking back at Malfoy.

The blond gave him a maddening smirk. "Learn Occlumency from Goyle and maybe I'll tell you."


	41. Ginny and the Magical Mirror

**June 15, 1998**

"Darling, you look lovely!" Narcissa exclaimed with more enthusiasm than pureblood etiquette or mere good manners required. She rose from a blue velvet chaise lounge and crossed the drawing room at Nott Manor with a languid grace to greet Ginny with a kiss on the cheek.

"You look beautiful, too, Narcissa," Ginny returned the compliment, though with a bit less veracity. The blonde witch was impeccably made up and coiffed, but she still looked ill and haunted. "I'm lucky to have the benefit of advice from a Black family mirror."

Narcissa looked at her blankly. "A Black family mirror?" she echoed.

"Cissy's had years of practice at looking her best," her former brother-in-law snorted. "She doesn't need the help of some damn mirror."

Ginny a mental note to ask Trixie why the youngest Black sister seemed unaware of the memorable mirror's existence. It would be neither polite nor prudent to probe while Rodolphus and Rabastan were present - they might destroy her only ally in the Lestrange household.

"Why, Roddy, I'm flattered that you noticed, even after being driven more than half-mad by the dementors in Azkaban," Narcissa said with venomous sweetness, recovering quickly.

"You make me feel underdressed," Ginny elaborated with greater honesty. Narcissa was dressed in azure silk and drenched in matching jewels - up to and including a tiara.

"Don't," her hostess commanded. "I'm the one who is overdressed. My husband is insistent that I have my portrait done, to commemorate our marriage. Personally, I think the painting already hanging at Malfoy Manor is more than sufficient, but it's some Nott family tradition, in case the wife dies young." Narcissa's lips were twisted in sarcasm.

"The painter left just before you arrived, and I haven't had time to change into something more suitable," she went on, pulling the tiara out of her long, blonde hair and slapping it down on a side table, heedless of the heirloom's value. "This thing gives me a headache."

Ginny nodded. Now that Narcissa mentioned it, she could smell oil paint lingering in the air. Like any pungent smell these days, it made her stomach turn. Suddenly, she gagged.

"Mind your manners, Ginevra," her husband snapped. "One would think you were raised in a barn - or was it a burrow?"

"Are you unwell?" her hostess asked, concerned.

"She's pregnant," Rodolphus said flatly. "Not that it's any excuse for her disgusting vomiting at all hours of the day and night."

"Ah," Narcissa said, equally expressionless. "I'll have the elves bring mint tea to help settle your stomach, Ginny."

"Aren't you going to congratulate us, Cissy?" Rabastan inquired. "One of us is going to be a father, and the other will be an uncle." From the smug look on his face, he clearly believed himself to be the former.

"Do accept my felicitations on the continuation of the Lestrange line," Narcissa said with an icy formality that made Ginny want to hug her.

"Will we be offering similar congratulations to Nott soon?" Rodolphus asked with a malicious smile. "I remember only too well how distressing it is to be saddled with an aging wife and no heir."

"I daresay you'll have to ask Charlus," Narcissa replied, ignoring the barb. "He's waiting for you both in his study."

She waited until the two Death Eaters were at the drawing room's threshold before retaliating. "Were you injured in the Dark Lord's service, Roddy? Or perhaps kicked by a thestral?" she asked with mock concern. "Your gait seems rather awkward."

Rabastan snickered. His older brother gave him and the two witches a poisonous glare before sweeping from the room.

"Toodles, ladies," the younger Lestrange departed with an airy wave.

"So, what really happened to Rodolphus's groin that has him limping?" Narcissa asked with a smirk. Ginny recognized the expression well - Malfoy had inherited it from his mother. "Come sit and tell me."

"I bit him," Ginny said, taking a seat on a comfortable padded chair across from the older witch. "Where it hurts the most."

"Gryffindors and their recklessness," Narcissa shook her head, trilling with laughter. "You're lucky Rodolphus didn't put you in St. Mungo's," she added, suddenly serious. "Nimue only knows how many times he sent Bella there - or worse, refused to allow her treatment."

"He's the one who wound up in St. Mungo's this time," Ginny said with grim satisfaction, shrugging off the risk to herself. "It's a pity they can magically repair a mangled penis."

"Hopefully it hurt like a _Crucio_ ," Narcissa wished vindictively, pouring out the tea.

"Rabastan said there was a Medi-witch on duty. She wasn't very gentle or sympathetic," Ginny reported, waving away the offered plate of biscuits.

"Good! Speaking of Medi-witches, have you seen anyone yet for your antenatal care?" Narcissa asked.

Ginny shook her head. "Rabastan cast a charm on me to confirm I was up the duff, but I don't think they want to take me to St. Mungo's."

"You'll want Madam Fawley," Narcissa said decisively. "She's delivered the majority of babies born to the Sacred Twenty-Eight over the past forty years, your family excluded. She's a touch old-fashioned and still makes house calls - at least to manor homes! Most importantly, she is _quite_ adamant about the need for strict pelvic rest throughout pregnancy to prevent miscarriage."

"Will the Lestranges listen to her, though?" Ginny asked, trying not to let her hopes get too high.

"They're ignorant about pregnancy and desperate for an heir," Narcissa said. "They'll do whatever Madam Fawley tells them is necessary for a healthy baby."

"I'll try to get an appointment with her immediately, then," Ginny said. Then she hesitated, wondering if she could trust Narcissa. She decided she had to, lacking any other real options. "Will she cast a paternity charm, though?"

"What, you're concerned how Rodolphus will react if it's confirmed Rabastan is the father?"

"Something like that," Ginny answered evasively.

"It shouldn't be a problem. There isn't a charm that can be cast before the baby is born," Narcissa replied, her blue eyes shrewd and speculative.

"But after?" Ginny asked anxiously.

"It's clear both of them already think Rabastan is the father, since Rabby's the younger and Roddy was never able to get Bella pregnant. Rodolphus isn't happy about it, but if you produce a healthy baby boy with hair anywhere between red and black, they'll both accept him as the Lestrange heir," the older witch reassured her.

Ginny sighed in relief. Harry's coloring wasn't all that different from the Lestrange brothers.

"Shall I send an elf to Madam Fawley now?" Narcissa inquired.

"Please do. Thank you," Ginny said with real gratitude at the prospect of going nine months without being raped.

She hesitated, then decided to plow ahead. "What about you? Is there anything the Medi-witch could do about your husband, to get him to leave you alone?"

"Madam Fawley already is supplying us with the necessary fertility and virility potions, as well as the optimal date each month for marital relations. On that night, I drink far too much wine and then lie back and think about Lucius," Narcissa said, her expression distant. "Other than that, Charlus leaves me alone, for which I am grateful."

"Grateful?" scoffed Ginny. "How can you be _grateful_ when he tortured your husband? He gouged out his eyes and cut off his tongue, for Godric's sake! And while I thought Lucius was a right bastard, it's clear that you loved him, and he loved you."

"He did love me," Narcissa agreed. "And I loved him deeply, too, so much that it hurts to see Draco now. He looks so much like his father did, back when Lucius began courting me."

Her blue eyes were misty, fixed on the fireplace, swept clean now that it was summer. "My husband's deepest desire at the end was to keep me safe, but he wasn't a Gryffindor. As much as he loved me, Lucius knew he would betray me, eventually, under torture. But without a tongue to speak, he could not say anything. And the Dark Lord could not perform Legilemency on him once Charlus ordered Macnair to blind him."

Ginny felt nauseated, for reasons that had nothing to do with her pregnancy hormones, but also felt a grudging admiration. "Did Lucius _ask_ Nott to do that to him?" Because if he had, then she thought that was one of the bravest things she had ever heard.

"Don't be absurd! Of course he didn't. He couldn't, not with Rowle and Macnair present." Narcissa spoke sharply, as a shield to her own sadness. "Charlus did what he thought was best, but I believe - I hope - it was what Lucius would have wanted. Charlus also thinks it best that I not see Draco right now. As long as I'm still mourning, it's too upsetting to me."

Cynically, Ginny thought it had gotten Charlus what _he_ wanted - a beautiful wife with impeccable lineage. Nott had also neatly removed Draco from the equation, knowing how strong the bond was between mother and son, and that Malfoy would never forgive him for torturing his father - or taking his place. But there was a pleading look in Narcissa's sapphire-blue eyes that made her hold her tongue. Instead, she murmured something that could be taken as an affirmative, allowing the other witch to cling to her comforting fiction about the cold, calculating bastard she was married to now.

When she was back in her own room, however, Ginny told Trixie exactly what she thought about the situation.

" - and that viper Nott has her halfway convinced that he did it for her! He won't let her see Malfoy, either, because the Ferret hates him, and Narcissa's just so _sad_. She's fading away, becoming nothing but a ghost of herself." She finished her rant, angry tears making her brown eyes shine in the mirror.

"There, there now. Don't cry for Cissy," Trixie ordered, transparently uncomfortable with offering emotional support over acerbic advice or scathing commentary. "She's a grown woman now, and wouldn't appreciate your pity."

"I'm not crying out of pity," Ginny corrected the mirror. "I'm furious, but there's nothing I can do."

"I remember Cissy when she was young," Trixie reminisced. "So pretty, so fair for a Black. By all rights, Bellatrix as the eldest should have married into the Malfoy family, but Lucius wanted Cissy and Abraxas indulged him." The mirror sounded distinctly jealous.

"Then Andromeda ran away and married a Mudblood instead of Rodolphus, and poor Bella made the Lestrange marriage instead," Trixie continued resentfully.

Ginny felt a prickle of unease down her spine. Enchanted mirrors, no matter how sophisticated the charm, should not be capable of this range of emotion. "Did you ever see Andromeda after that?" she asked.

"I saw her once in Diagon Alley, with her little daughter. She looked exactly like Meda as a girl - the same dark hair and grey eyes," Trixie responded, blithely unaware - or uncaring - of Ginny's trap. If anything, the mirror sounded wistful.

"Tonks was a Metamorphagus," Ginny explained. "She could change her appearance at will."

"Meda named her daughter _Tonks_?" shrieked the mirror in outrage. "Who does that to an innocent little baby?"

"Actually, Tonks was her surname. She was christened Nymphadora Edwina," Ginny explained, with a grin. It had been an ongoing joke how much Tonks had loathed both of her given names.

"Well, that's much more suitable," Trixie said, oblivious to the irony. "She was only a half-blood, of course, but she looked every inch a Black. I wonder whatever happened to her?"

"Tonks became an Auror," Ginny answered. She had noticed that Trixie's knowledge of people and events seemed to stop in the late 70's or early 80's. Instead of sharing everything about Tonks all at once, she wanted to dole out the information and determine the mirror's loyalties. Ginny no longer had just her own life to think about, but also her baby's - Harry's baby, she was certain of it.

"A Black witch as an Auror?!" Trixie exclaimed.

"You sound surprised. And pleased," Ginny noted, surprised herself by the latter reaction.

"I am. The Blacks never permitted their daughters any options beyond marriage, no matter how talented they were," Trixie replied. "It's wonderful Nymphadora was able to break with that particular pureblood tradition, even if her mother and aunts could not. Did Nymphadora make a good marriage, as well?"

"She was married to one of my former DADA professors," Ginny said, deliberately omitting his name. She suspected that Trixie, from her past life, knew quite well that Remus Lupin was infected with lycanthropy, and would not take kindly to the notion of a werewolf marrying into the Black family.

"Well, that's a respectable profession, if not the highest-paying." Trixie's approval was lukewarm. "Any children?"

Once again, Ginny was reminded that the mirror - among other personality flaws - was obsessed with infants. "They had a son, Teddy, born at Easter."

"A little baby boy," Trixie cooed. "How precious."

Ginny narrowed her eyes, deep in thought. Before her death, Bellatrix Lestrange had vowed to kill her great-nephew, claiming he was a half-breed cub, but the mirror sounded sincere. "Teddy's an orphan now, if he's still alive - both his parents were killed at Hogwarts," she volunteered.

"How horrid! Who killed Nymphadora?" Trixie demanded angrily.

"Her aunt killed her in a duel."

"Cissy? I can't see Cissy killing anyone, let alone a blood relation! Unless Nymphadora hurt Draco or Lucius. Then I suppose she might have done," Trixie mused. "Like all the Blacks, Cissy has a tremendous loyalty to her family - "

"It wasn't Narcissa. Bellatrix was the one who murdered her niece," Ginny interrupted, harshly.

"No! Blood matters . . . . " The mirror fell silent.

Ginny counted ten heartbeats, then spoke. "Narcissa didn't know anything about you, Trixie. She had never heard of a Black family mirror. What are you - _who_ are you - really?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Ginevra," Trixie protested.

"Bollocks," Ginny said bluntly. "I know all about Horcruxes - I was possessed by one when I was twelve. I think you know exactly what I'm getting at, _Bellatrix_."

 **A/N: I wanted to offer a big, collective THANK YOU to everyone who's left a comment on TLLH, since it now has over 900 reviews! Going forward, I'll be borrowing a page from the tremendously talented and versatile olivieblake (** ** _Fortuna Major_** **is a fluffy SoCal Dramione, while** ** _Marked_** **has some of the more emotionally intense chapters I've ever read) and recognizing a couple of reviewers each chapter. (I'll also still reply to reviews and PMs to answer questions about the story.)**

 **So thanks to Grove26, who consistently leaves at least a word of praise for every chapter, and whose review of chapter 39 made me laugh, and Sam Wallflower. Her enthusiasm and curiosity about what comes next is a real encouragement to keep writing!**


	42. Theo and the Prankster

**A/N: No trigger warnings apply, but this honestly may be one of the more evil chapters I've ever written. I'm so proud of it!**

 _ **June 21, 1998**_

"Will this work?" Ron asked, looking at Luna with a distinctly doubtful look on his freckled face.

"It should," Luna said, with a serenity Theo only wished he possessed. "I've read the runes and consulted the tea leaves. Plus, tonight is the summer solstice, so the Veil is especially transparent."

"It should," Professor Flitwick agreed. "It's a tricky charm that we created, but it should work, even if it won't summon Albus."

"What if it doesn't work?" Theo asked. Luna had had the idea - either mad or brilliant - to create a spell that would allow others to use the Resurrection Stone to bring their loved ones back through the Veil by linking through him.

" _You_ won't be harmed," the youngest Weasley wizard said sourly. "You're the bloody master of the Resurrection Stone, while I'm the poor sod who has to rely on you to fetch Harry from Death."

While the Order's first preference was to bring Dumbledore back, since he was the one most likely to know how Voldemort had survived the Killing Curse even with all of his Horcruxes destroyed, they had no one who had enjoyed a close enough relationship with the headmaster to bring him back to the land of the living. His brother Aberforth was missing and Professor McGonagall was a virtual prisoner at Hogwarts.

The Order's leadership had decided that Harry Potter might have some inside information, given Ron's revelation that Harry had been a Horcrux himself with a psychic connection to the Dark Lord. Since Potter and Weasley had been best friends - or lovers, if one chose to believe the malicious gossip Pansy liked to spread in the Slytherin common room - the Weasel King and Theo had been tasked with summoning the Chosen One from the other side of the Veil.

"It's like a team-building exercise that the Muggles do!" Luna exclaimed. "Maybe you and Theo could climb ropes, or fall back and catch one another!"

Ron looked confused and nauseated, while Theo tried to maintain a stoic facade.

From the amused twinkle in Professor Flitwick's eyes, he failed. "I think having them hold hands will be sufficient, Luna, dear," the professor advised.

"Go on, then, boys," he directed.

Theo took off the Resurrection Stone and held out his left hand, the one where he normally wore the ring. Weasley took his hand with an audible _huff_. "Bill and George will make you sorry if I get hurt," the ginger warned, squeezing hard.

"Noted," Theo sneered, squeezing back. After more than six weeks at Shell Cottage, he was thoroughly sick of the empty bluster of Gryffindors. In his right hand, he turned the Resurrection Stone over, three times, as he had done before when he called his mother.

"You won't be hurt, Ronald," Luna promised, grabbing his free hand first and then Theo's, linking the three of them in an awkward triangle. "Not physically, at least," she warned with disconcerting honesty. "Just whatever you do, don't let go of Theo."

Ron did not answer her, instead whipping his head around at the sound of a shoe scuffing against the rocky ground. "Mum? Dad? Fred?"

Instead of the cottage's cramped cellar, they were working outdoors, within a warded circle. Professor Flitwick stood outside the boundaries, but from the way he was staring off in the distance, watching the diving gulls, Theo knew the Charms professor could not see that the circle now contained six people, rather than three.

A plump woman, who Theo assumed was Mrs. Weasley, made a beeline for Ron. He wrenched away from Theo and Luna to hug her. The older of the men, his reddish hair faded with middle age, spoke softly to Luna, a puzzled but pleased expression on his face. The youngest, only a couple years older than himself, gave Theo a twisted grin.

"It's Nott, right? You're a snake in ickle Ronniekin's year?"

"Yes," Theo admitted cautiously, knowing who he was dealing with. "And you're Fred Weasley."

"In the flesh, kinda," the notorious prankster agreed. "How'd you bring us back?"

Theo showed him the ring. "One of the Deathly Hallows."

"Wicked," said Fred. "You're pranking Death himself. But why bring us back?" His freckled face turned serious. "Death isn't much for jokes, not unless they're cruel and he's the one playing them. You'll pay a price for this."

Theo brushed by the warning. He knew there would be a price, but the Order's leadership didn't care. He would be the one most likely to pay it, and they viewed him as an expendable Death Eater. "We didn't call you back for a prank. Where's Potter?"

"Harry?" Fred asked, puzzled. "I haven't the foggiest."

"Luna was sure Ron would be able to bring him back, because they were close," Theo persisted. He craned his head over the redhead's shoulder, ascertaining that no one else had appeared in the circle. Luna still was holding his hand while engaged in an animated conversation with Mr. Weasley, but her worried grey eyes followed Ron and his mother as they walked away, in the direction of the sea.

Fred snorted. "You'd do better with Ginny. Harry and Ron are best mates, but he's head over arse in love with my baby sister."

"She wasn't available," Theo said evasively.

"What's going on?" demanded Fred. "What's happened since I died?"

"You honestly don't know?" Theo queried.

"We're not ghosts, my snaky friend. Once I chose to pass through the Veil, I lost track of what's happening on this side."

"It's bad," Theo said bluntly. "The Dark Lord's taken over Hogwarts and the Ministry. There are pockets of resistance, and he may overreach himself eventually, but for now the Death Eaters are in control."

He hesitated, and decided Fred deserved to know the worst. "He's giving out witches who fought for the Light as prizes to his senior Death Eaters. Ginny's a Lestrange now."

"Over my dead body," Fred said, before realizing the incongruity. "Fucking Death Eater whoresons!" he swore.

Fred grabbed his arm, hard enough that Theo could feel it as more than a brush of cool flesh. "Tell George to get Lestrange on my side of the Veil and I'll fucking rip him to shreds," he commanded. "And you tell me what I can do to help make that happen."

"The Order needs to figure out how to defeat the Dark Lord," Theo stated succinctly.

"Old Moldy Shorts? Buggered if I know," Fred admitted.

"What about Harry or Dumbledore? Can you fetch them?" Theo asked. "Your brother Bill and Shacklebolt think they can help."

"I haven't a clue where Harry is, but I'll talk to Dumbledore," Fred offered. "I don't think I can bring him through, though. Barmy old bastard sits in his tower and reads all day and night, except when he goes to the station to fetch another one of us."

"Just get me or Luna a message," Theo said.

"Speaking of old Voldy, you lot really need to start using his real name again," Fred suggested, examining his translucent fingernails with studied casualness.

"It's Taboo!" Theo protested. "Say his name, and a bunch of Snatchers Apparate in!"

"Yeah, and then you can pick them off, if you've made appropriate preparations," Fred explained. "Tell George I told you - he'll know what to do. There's a bunch of merchandise at the shop going unsold that could be put to good use."

Theo stared at the master prankster, impressed despite himself. "That might work," he conceded, "but he'll never listen to me. I'm the resident Death Eater, you see." He shoved up his sleeve and held out his left arm, displaying the mangled Dark Mark.

The Weasley twin rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. "Tell George I sent you, and give him the secret code. 'I solemnly swear that I'm up to no good.' He'll know it's a message from me," Fred said with confidence. "If that doesn't work, tell him Angelina's favorite knickers are the thong with tiger stripes that I gave her."

"Are you trying to get me hexed?"

"Maybe," Fred winked. "But I really want my twin to start living again. I may be dead, but he's not. Tell him that, too, and that I don't want to see him on my side of the Veil for a century or so."

"You could tell him yourself," Theo offered.

"No, that would be a grave mistake," Fred said seriously, despite the pun.

Suddenly, he spun away from Theo. "Oi, Ron! Get away from there!" he shouted to his brother, now dangerously close to the edge of a steep cliff overlooking the sea. "Mum, what are you doing?" he screamed.

Theo saw Luna speak to Mr. Weasley, low and urgent. "Molly, could you come here, please?" he asked mildly.

The red-haired woman glanced back at her husband, a pleading look on her face. "I miss them all so much, Arthur. Please - just let me bring Ron. It will be easier for him . . . . "

She continued to walk towards the cliff's edge, Ron following docilely, his eyes blank.

" _Accio_ Ronald!" Luna called, raising her wand, summoning the youngest Weasley son.

"Hold him back," Fred hissed in Theo's ear. Ron was fighting to break free from Luna's soft embrace, to return to his dead mother and hurl himself over the cliff. Luna was clinging to him with surprising strength, but the gangly redhead twisted away and began to run towards Mrs. Weasley.

"Help me!" Fred cried, sprinting after his brother. Theo followed at his heels.

"Molly!" Mr. Weasley cried. "Move away from the edge!"

Slowly, grudgingly, she took a couple of steps towards her husband, still too close to the sharp drop onto the rocky beach below.

Ron ran faster, but Theo and Fred had nearly caught up to him. Fred flung himself at his younger brother's legs, trying to tackle him, but his incorporeal body had no effect. Theo tried to do the same, but he was no athlete. He clipped Ron's heels and went sprawling in the dirt. Without a wand - and he still was not trusted with one - there was nothing he could do to stop the ginger from killing himself.

 _Death always charges a price_ , Theo thought. He supposed he should be relieved that he wasn't the one to pay it, but he merely felt sickened at the waste.

" _Immobulus_!" screamed Luna. The jet of light from her wand hit Ron between the shoulder blades and he collapsed to the ground, momentum skidding him forward to within a couple of meters of the cliff's edge.

Theo scrambled to his feet and threw himself over Ron's body.

"Geroff me!" the ginger bellowed. "Death Eater prick! You and fucking perfect Percy! I'll kill you both!"

"Calm down, bro," Fred urged, to no effect.

Luna arrived, with Mr. Weasley in tow, just as Theo felt Ron begin to quiver. Theo was terrified that he would try to roll them both off the cliff as soon as the immobilizing spell wore off.

"Listen to me, son," Arthur said seriously.

Ron turned tormented blue eyes on his father. "Why'd you have to die? You and mum?"

"What am I, chopped liver?" Fred muttered, for Theo's ears alone.

"It's not fair!" Ron continued. "It's not fair that you had to die while scum like Nott and Percy get to keep living!"

"Oh, Ron. I forget that you're so young," Mr. Weasley sighed.

"You weren't old, Dad. You and Mum should have had had years together at the Burrow, teaching your grandkids to like Muggle things while Mum stuffed them to bursting. It's not fair!" he reiterated.

Mr. Weasley reached over Theo to give his son a comforting pat on the shoulder, but Ron did not seem to feel it. "It's not fair, but that's life. And now death. You need to stay here - you and your brothers have a job to do."

"I'll do it," Ron vowed. "I'll kill Percy for what he did to you and Mum."

"No, Ronald," Arthur said sternly. "You and your brothers will _help_ Percy. I killed your mother so the Death Eaters wouldn't torture her to death, and Percy performed the same saving grace for me."

"But . . . but he's a Death Eater!" Ron protested, mouth gaping in shock.

"He's your brother," Mr. Weasley said implacably, as Mrs. Weasley nodded in firm agreement. "And your mother and I hope you'll remember that."

"I will," Ron promised, his voice hoarse.

"That's my son. Now, can Theodore let you up?"

Ron gave a grudging nod. Theo rolled off him and stood up, moving away from the edge of the cliff. Luna gripped his hand and Theo closed his eyes in relief, savoring the warm feeling of safety that she brought to him.

"Come here, Ronald," she said, her soft, musical voice not hiding the note of command.

With a glance back at his parents, Ron obeyed. Theo felt a surge of jealousy as the other boy took her hand and then buried his face against her neck, sobbing quietly as she consoled him.

Fred Weasley shot Theo a concerned look. "Remember, talk to George," was all he said.

"And you talk to Dumbledore," Theo reminded him.

With a jaunty wave of acknowledgment, Fred followed his parents out of the warded circle and disappeared.

Hours later, Theo stepped from shower and wound a towel around his waist. Exhausted from the events of the day, he wanted nothing more than to collapse into his bed.

Instead, George Weasley was sitting there, the frown on his face apparent even in the faint light of the rising moon. Theo's shoulders slumped. He had conveyed Fred's messages earlier in the evening, garnering nothing more than a hostile stare and muttered, "Fuck off, Death Eater," from the surviving Weasley twin.

He _really_ was in no mood for a confrontation, especially with Luna off somewhere comforting the worthless youngest Weasley brother. "What do you want, George?" he asked aggressively.

"Hmmm, you really can't tell us apart, can you? If you're confused, try calling us Gred or Forge, though my two intact ears should give you a fucking clue, if not my ethereal silvery glow."

"Fred?" Theo asked dumbly.

"In the flesh, sort of, once again," the dead twin confirmed. "I don't have long. Dumbles told me to tell you that Voldy couldn't have made more than six Horcruxes. If he splits his soul any more than seven times, then he'll disappear in a puff of dust, which would be a good thing, yeah?"

"So Potter missed a Horcrux?" Theo asked, crinkling his forehead in thought.

"Must have done," Fred agreed. "Careless little brighter."

"Can I talk to Potter?" Theo asked. Ron Weasley would never admit to a mistake, and communication with Granger by charmed Galleon was unwieldy.

"Mate, Harry's not on this side of the Veil," Fred said.

"What?" Theo's mouth gaped open in shock.

"Dumbledore said that because Harry's a Horcrux, an Avada won't do him in. It might destroy his physical body, but his soul isn't going anywhere without a basilisk bite or being toasted over Fiendfyre like a marshmallow," Fred reported.

Theo stared at him for a long moment in incomprehension, finding his voice only as Fred began to fade. "Oh, fuck."

"Oh, fuck, indeed," Fred's voice echoed, for once not amused.

 **A/N: Many, many thanks for the reviews of the last chapter! I'm a huge fan of the classic British detective stories that keep one guessing until the last chapter as to "who dun it," when all the clues come together, so I was tremendously gratified by the split between those who knew it and those who admitted they didn't see that plot twist coming.**

 **Because I do believe in fair play and leaving clues, I will confirm that at least one Horcrux made an appearance in chapter 41. A special shout out to Noder, because I appreciate the love for the non-Dramione chapters, and to Shaya Lonnie, for her eloquent use of profanity and because her stories have provided me with hours upon hours of entertainment.**


	43. Percy Is Propositioned

**_June 23, 1998_**

"Percy?" Umbridge queried in her sickeningly sweet voice. "Do you have any further questions for the detainee?"

Percy swallowed hard, feeling sweat bead on his forehead despite the icy chill in the courtroom, a chill that seemed to have lodged itself in his very soul. He could see the prisoner, a middle-aged Muggleborn wizard, quaking as the two Dementors prowled around him. Worse, he could hear the Dementors' deep, rattling breaths of anticipation and pleasure as they sucked every bit of happiness and hope from the man.

"No questions, Madam Umbridge," he gritted out. Speech became easier with each word. "Mr. Shepard has provided us with the necessary information about his family tree. I'll investigate further to see if he has any Squib relatives or magical blood."

Umbridge's toad-like mouth widened into a grin. "Excellent," she said. "The prisoner is remanded to Azkaban while the special assistant to the Minister conducts an investigation into possible magical antecedents."

She banged her gavel on the podium, making Percy jump in his seat. Upon joining the Death Eaters, he had been promoted from junior assistant to special assistant, a promotion he had previously coveted but that now tasted like ashes in his mouth. Once, he had wanted power. Now he had it, and it sickened him.

Through his plausible "discovery" of a wizard, a witch, or even a Squib as a relative, Percy had the power to pick and choose which Muggleborns to save from Azkaban. But he could only protect a few, and the burden of choosing which ones to rescue was crushing his soul.

Audrey's brisk practicality helped a bit. She counseled him to stick out his neck for those who were the youngest, the most magically gifted, or who had names like Jones or Montgomery in their family tree, since those names were common in both the Muggle and wizarding worlds. Hermione, for instance, had been an easy case even before Madam Zabini interceded with her various proofs. Thinking of that reminded him that he needed to send Hermione an official letter, care of Malfoy, regarding her NEWT exams.

Despite Audrey's good advice, Percy felt haunted by the faces of those Muggleborns he couldn't save. He already had decided that poor Shepard, whose magic was middling and who had no relatives with recognizable names, would have to stay in Azkaban, and that decision - though sensible - made him feel filthy.

Percy gathered up his notes with painstaking care, hoping to avoid having to accompany Umbridge back to the higher levels of the Ministry. She was a foul, vile, evil witch, the personification of the Muggle axiom that power corrupted, and absolute power corrupted absolutely. Percy did not like to think too carefully about what her affection for him said about his prattish, priggish Ministry persona.

Despite his delaying tactics, she was waiting for him in the corridor, tapping one pink ballet flat with impatience. "Percy, whatever took you so long?"

"I apologize, Madam Umbridge. I was organizing my notes while everything was fresh in my mind," Percy explained.

"So diligent," Umbridge sighed soulfully. "So hard-working." She reached into her handbag - pink, of course - and pulled out a bar of Honeyduke's dark with almonds.

"Would you like some chocolate?" she cooed.

"Thank you very much, Madam Undersecretary." Percy's political instincts were too finely honed to refuse, but he expressed his appreciation formally, emphasizing that he was her subordinate at the Ministry.

"Call me Dolores," she insisted, handing over the chocolate bar.

Percy accepted it, but couldn't quite hold back a shudder as her thick and stubby fingers brushed against the inside of his wrist, close to the edge of his Dark Mark.

"The Dementors bother you, don't they?" the witch asked sweetly. Percy did not miss the gleam in her eye. Her concern might be real, but she also was looking for leverage.

"No more than anyone else," he replied cautiously.

"Horrid creatures. I'm so pleased that my kitty keeps them far, far away. _Expecto Patronum_!"

A plump Persian cat emerged from Umbridge's wand, giving both of the humans a disdainful look. After a desultory glance around for any soul-sucking Dementors, the feline gave an annoyed-sounding meow and settled onto its haunches to embark upon an elaborate grooming ritual of its silver fur.

"Such a nice pussy," Umbridge cooed. "You keep those nasty Dementors far away from Mummy, don't you?"

Percy made appropriate noises of admiration at the Patronus, resolutely trying _not_ to think of the crude meaning that Fred and George would assign to Umbridge's words, or how they would be rolling on the floor with laughter at the notion of the witch having a Dementor-repelling vagina. Knowing the twins, they would probably use it as inspiration for a new product line to sell at their joke shop.

The memory of Fred's sightless eyes sobered Percy immediately. That was second memory he saw when in the proximity of Dementors; the first was his parents' last moments. "They are horrid creatures," he agreed softly.

"You need someone to teach you the Patronus charm. I could do it - I could be your _patroness_ ," she punned. "Tell Pius I'll be there in five minutes," she directed the cat. With a flick of her wand, and a flick of its tail, the Patronus sauntered away.

Percy watched it go, to avoid having to look at the short witch staring up at him with a greedy look in her eyes. "You're too kind, Madam Umbridge. But I couldn't in good conscience waste the time and efforts of such a busy and important Ministry official."

She preened under his flattery as they walked towards the lifts. "It would be no trouble, Percy," Umbridge assured him. "As busy as I am, it would be a _pleasure_ to tutor a talented young wizard like yourself."

Percy had never been happier to have a Dark Mark. "I'm afraid my prior allegiances preclude me from casting a Patronus of my own," he said, casting a rueful glance at his left forearm.

"How fascinating! Death Eaters can't cast the Patronus Charm?" Umbridge asked, intrigued.

"So I've been reliably informed," Percy said. "By the Minister of Magic. When he was head of MLE, his Patronus took the form of an ostrich. He told me hasn't been able to cast it since his promotion."

"Fascinating," Umbridge murmured, with a thoughtful expression. She was a true politician, always seeking some personal advantage. "Poor Pius. Though I suppose there are compensations."

"Indeed," Percy agreed, dryly, knowing his boss's proclivities towards underage witches. During the Scrimgeour administration, before Rookwood placed him under the Imperius Curse for months on end, Pius Thicknesse had been known as a rigidly upright prosecutor. Percy still had not decided if the since-lifted Unforgivable had unleashed some latent darkness in Thicknesse's soul, or if the wizard had just been good at covering his tracks.

"Level One. Office of the Minister of Magic." The doors of the lift slid open, none too soon for Percy's liking. Umbridge had been drawing closer, making the lift seem increasingly cramped.

He held open the door, allowing Umbridge to bustle self-importantly into the reception area while he followed in her wake. There, Audrey was a welcome sight, sitting on one of the visitor's chairs and reviewing a report on proposed upgrades to the Floo Network with no signs of impatience, even though he was more than a few minutes late for their regular lunch date.

"Percy!" she looked up with a grin. "And here I thought you had forsaken me for another witch!"

"No, no, I was detained by MRC obligations. I could never forsake you - or the equally delightful Ministry cafeteria," he joked back. Audrey was one of the few people who appreciated his dry and slightly absurd sense of humor.

"And who is this?" Umbridge turned back, bristling.

Audrey stood up, towering a good few inches above the short, pink-clad witch, and gave her a bright smile. "Cousin Dolores - how lovely to finally meet you as an adult!" She offered her hand. "I'm Audrey _Selwyn_."

Percy kept a straight face as Umbridge forced a pleasant expression in response to the Selwyn surname. He knew that Audrey - like her father and brother - thought Umbridge's claim to be a long-lost relative was utter bollocks, but the family had decided to play along. For now.

"Little Audrey, all grown up!" Umbridge gushed. "I never would have recognized you - you were such a _pretty_ child!"

Audrey blinked at the unexpected spitefulness. Then she looked at Percy, over Umbridge's shoulder, an expression of dawning comprehension in her dark blue eyes. "It's been so many years that I'm afraid I don't remember you at all," she replied mildly, claws sheathed.

"Oh, you couldn't have been more than three or four years old. Your mother had you all dressed up in a pink party dress," Umbridge extemporized.

"My mother?" the younger witch asked. Percy knew that Audrey's mother had died in an accident when she was an infant, and also knew her well enough to recognize the hostile inflection in her voice, but Umbridge was oblivious.

"Yes, such a dear women. Lovely old-fashioned manners. What is her first name again?"

"Maude," Audrey answered, tonelessly.

"Do give her my regards," Umbridge simpered. "Now, since your mother isn't here, as an older female relative I feel it is my duty to chaperone you and Percy at lunch."

"We're just friends," Percy responded quickly, knowing that wasn't strictly the truth. He and Audrey were friends, but there was a developing mutual interest in becoming something more.

"Witches and wizards can't be just friends," Umbridge sniffed.

"You also have a lunch meeting with the Minister, Undersecretary Umbridge," he reminded her.

"Besides, we're just going to the Ministry cafeteria," Audrey chimed in. "It's not a _date_."

Despite his best efforts, Percy just the tiniest bit insulted by Audrey's scornful emphasis on the last word. Was she that opposed to going on a date with him? Perhaps the interest in becoming something more than friends wasn't mutual after all.

"Well, I suppose Audrey won't get a fast reputation by having lunch somewhere as casual and public as the Ministry cafeteria," Umbridge conceded, grudgingly.

"I agree, ma'am, and that's a good thing," Audrey said, sweet as pie. "After all, Percy and I have had lunch or tea together practically every day this past month!" In a show of pureblood manners, she held out her arm to Percy in a silent demand to take her to the cafeteria. He happily acquiesced, leading her to the bank of lifts.

"What's wrong?" he asked, as soon as the doors closed behind them. This late into the lunch hour, they were the only ones in the lift.

"That woman is such a fraud!" Audrey burst out. "Pretending to be a Selwyn, when she's probably not even a pureblood. Not that I care about blood status, but she does - hypocritical old bitch!"

"I'm surprised you're so upset," Percy said carefully. "I thought you were aware she was claiming a connection to your family."

"Oh, I knew it," Audrey said bitterly. "Father wants to capitalize on her political influence. But it's another thing to have to smile at that toad-faced witch and endorse her lies. She wants to be a Selwyn, but didn't even bother to learn that my mother died!"

"It's why Father became a Death Eater," she continued, as though speaking to herself. "Mother Apparated to what had been a sacred grove near her grandparents' house. She didn't know the Muggles had turned it into a motorway. She was struck by a car and died at a Muggle hospital. They didn't know magic to fix her, you see."

"I'm sorry," Percy offered, knowing the words were inadequate.

"It's not your fault," Audrey said automatically. "Father blames the Muggles, but it's not really their fault, either. It was an accident."

The lift descended another floor as they both watched the floor numbers in awkward silence.

"She fancies you, you know," Audrey said, as the reached Level Five, where the cafeteria was centrally located.

"What? Who?" Percy sputtered, despite knowing exactly what she meant.

"The pink toad fancies you," Audrey said with certainty.

"I know," Percy moaned. "But what can I do? I report to her for my current project!"

"Have her written up for sexual harassment?" Audrey suggested, half-jokingly.

Percy shook his head. "Do you really think Thicknesse cares about that? He's the biggest perpetrator at the Ministry these days! If I reported Umbridge, I would just make myself a laughing stock."

"Get yourself a girlfriend?" Audrey suggested, much more seriously.

"Er," Percy said, at a loss for words. "I thought you said the Ministry cafeteria doesn't count as a date."

"It doesn't," Audrey said definitively. "But you can always ask me to dinner."

"Miss Selwyn, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to dinner tonight, in Diagon Alley?"

"Why, I'd love to," Audrey dimpled. "You can pick me up at my office at half-six."

Lunch and the rest of Percy's afternoon passed in a pleasant haze of anticipation. However, when he approached Audrey's small, interior office at the appointed time, he saw the silhouette of a tall wizard through the lightly frosted glass. The man was leaning over her desk, and Percy felt a sudden and unexpected pang of jealousy at just how close he was to Audrey.

Percy cleared his throat as he walked through her open door. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything." Immediately, he felt foolish, recognizing the tall wizard as Audrey's brother, Brian.

She gave him a strained smile. "You're not, but my git of a brother is. Apparently, you're no longer available for dinner tonight."

"There's a meeting at Malfoy Manor in a half hour," Brian said, semi-apologetically. "You can take my sister out some other night, Weasley, but the Dark Lord takes precedence. You know that, Audrey."

"All too well," she snapped. "And Percy doesn't need your permission, brother mine."

Brian gave her an indulgent smile. "Your courtship will go much more smoothly if Father and I approve. Otherwise, your boyfriend could find himself on the wrong side of our wands."

"You don't mind that I asked your sister on a date?" Percy asked warily.

"Audrey could do a lot worse," Brian shrugged, as his sister rolled her eyes at them. "Now let's go - we don't want to be late. We can Apparate right outside the main gates. Do you know the spot?"

Percy nodded. He had been to Malfoy Manor once before as part of a Ministry raid.

Audrey glared at them both, hands on her hips but concern in her eyes. "Be careful. And Percy - "

He looked at her expectantly. "Yes?"

"I'll see you for dinner on Friday."

It wasn't a question, but as Percy Apparated away, he found he didn't mind Audrey's forthrightness in the least.

 **A/N: I'm really excited that this story will most likely hit 1000 reviews on a Percy chapter, since he's been a sneaky scene-stealer this entire story. So thank you all for this milestone!** ** _I was BOTWP_** **gets a special mention this chapter, both for the thoughtful and spot-on questions about Harry in her review of the last chapter, and because an earlier comment she made about someone teaching Percy the Patronus charm inspired this chapter. Also, a nod of thanks to** ** _Analena_** **for both her kind review and discreet PM. By the way, if you're logged in and asked a question in a review, I will answer via PM, but I unfortunately can't do that for guest reviewers.**


	44. Neville's Inner Amphibian

**_June 23, 1998, cont._**

Like the dining room at Longbotttom House, the dining room at Malfoy Manor was paneled in venerable, polished wood. The similarities ended there. The oak paneling in Neville's family home created an overall effect of warmth. Malfoy Manor felt chilly, even in early summer, and the company was frightful.

Neville thought of his grandmother and her perpetually stiff upper lip. With a conscious effort, he suppressed the urge to shiver, reminding himself that he was a Gryffindor. He had to try and be brave like a lion.

"No, you want to be dull like a toad," Goyle admonished out of the corner of his mouth. "Think of Trevor. Don't let anyone see anything interesting if they get into your head."

"Put your masks on, arseholes, and shut it," Blaise growled. With Draco near the head of the long mahogany table, on the edge of the inner circle, the dark-skinned Slytherin had deputized himself to keep the Hogwarts' delegation of junior Death Eaters in line. They stood in something akin to solidarity against the back wall of the long room.

Except for Zacharias Smith. "Why should I listen to you, Zabini?" he protested in his whiny voice.

"Uh, 'cuz you've got pimples on your face telling everyone you've got a tiny dick," Goyle said in his slow voice, stating the obvious.

Neville pulled his silver Death Eater mask over his face. He did it in part to hide his grin. More importantly, it also made Occlumency against him more difficult because his eyes now were partially obscured.

" _Muffliato_ ," Zabini said, casting the anti-eavesdropping charm with a subtle flick of his wand. "Just in case any of you tossers blurts out something stupid during the meeting."

From his place to the Dark Lord's immediate left, Charlus Nott held up a hand and the room quieted immediately. The old wizard had a certain presence about him, almost as sinister as his snake-faced master.

"Our Lord wishes to hear of the plans to root out the nest of weasels and blood traitors in Cornwall," he intoned.

While it was par for the course for Voldemort to sit back while one of his lackeys acted as spokesman, Neville was interested to see that Rabastan Lestrange stood to answer, instead of his older brother. Usually Rodolphus would handle any favorable reports himself.

"We know from Ministry records that the property is located three kilometers from a Muggle village, with the cottage itself on a bluff above the sea," the younger Lestrange reported. "There are some boundary wards, but nothing someone clever and agile couldn't disable. It'll be easier done by a pair, one on the ground and one in the air."

"Malfoy and Zabini will accompany you, then," the Dark Lord ordered.

From his vantage point in the back, Neville saw Malfoy's blond head incline in acceptance, while Blaise nodded from two places over. Neither bothered to fake enthusiasm over having been volunteered for a dangerous attack on some of the Order's most powerful and dangerous remaining wizards.

"When will you strike?" Nott inquired.

"Right after the full moon, when the Weasley who Greyback bit is at his weakest," Rabastan stated.

Voldemort spoke softly in Nott's ear, and the older wizard's intense gaze found Percy, sitting in a chair towards the middle of the room, behind Pius Thicknesse and next to the younger Selwyn.

"Weasley, have you been to Shell Cottage?" Nott asked.

"I have," Percy replied, unruffled.

"Are there blood wards?" the Dark Lord demanded.

Weasley hesitated. "There were not, not before the battle at Hogwarts."

"What about now?" Nott questioned. "Do you know?"

"I do not," Percy admitted, looking down at his shoes as though ashamed at his lack of knowledge.

"You will accompany the team on the raid, in case they need your assistance on getting through the wards," Voldemort ordered.

"Yes, my lord," Percy said with servility.

The Lestrange brothers looked uncommonly pleased, while Blaise allowed a momentary expression of relief to flit across his otherwise impassive face. "If someone's going to be bait, better him than me," he muttered.

"Do you have anything else to report?" Nott inquired, pinning Rabastan with his cold eyes.

"Unrelated to the raid, we are expecting the arrival of a Lestrange heir in early March," Rabastan announced with poorly concealed glee.

"A male child?" the Dark Lord inquired, steepling his long, white fingers.

"Madam Fawley has confirmed the pregnancy, and that the baby is a boy." This time, Rodolphus answered, shooting a smug look around the room.

"Congratulations," Nott offered in a cold, flat voice, echoed with varying degrees of enthusiasm by other Death Eaters. Personally, Neville was appalled at the thought of Ginny having to carry and bear Lestrange spawn.

"Do you like to eat flies?" Goyle asked, lips barely moving, reminding him to maintain his mental barriers.

"I do," Neville grit out. Looking over at Ginny's brother, he saw that Percy's expression was carefully neutral, but his freckles were standing out in stark against the pallor of his face. He suspected that the pedantic former Head Boy was feeling unusually violent, and hanging onto his self-control by a thread.

"Excellent," Voldemort hissed, offering very rare praise to the gratified Lestrange brothers. "What about you, Charlus? Will you have a replacement for Theodore anytime soon?" he asked cruelly.

"My son is irreplaceable," Nott stated in a flat voice.

Voldemort raised his yew wand and Nott doubled over in pain. _Not a Crucio_ , Neville thought dispassionately. By now, he was well-acquainted with that spell - on both ends of a wand.

"I asked whether you and your wife will produce a replacement heir anytime soon?" the Dark Lord reiterated, lowering his wand.

Charlus coughed and attempted to stand up straight, bracing himself against the table. "Narcissa does her duty," he stated. "However, her track record when it comes to producing sons is poor." He sneered in Draco's direction; the blond wizard returned the look with interest.

"Deflection. Nice." Neville could just barely make out Blaise's cynical commentary, whispered despite the protection of the _Muffliato_. Zabini was careful like that, careful to never get caught.

"She is a bit beyond her prime child-bearing years," the Dark Lord mused. "Perhaps you need a younger wife. The third time is the charm, as they say."

"Perhaps, my lord, but not quite yet," Charlus dared to disagree. "It's early days yet, and Narcissa's lineage is impeccable. While she produced only a single heir for the House of Malfoy, I won't deny that Draco is a talented and powerful wizard."

Draco's sneer had faded to a look of horror at the implied threat to his mother; now he looked suspicious at Nott's praise.

"Yes, I should expect that he and his Mudblood will produce several magically powerful children for the cause," Voldemort agreed. "What progress have you made on that front, Draco?" he asked, turning his gleaming red eyes onto the younger wizard.

"Granger is malnourished from several months on the run and still is suffering the aftereffects of my aunt's Cruciactus Curse. She's not pregnant yet, but it isn't for lack of trying," Draco replied.

"Is that so?" Voldemort questioned, dangerously. " _Legilemens_."

Neville spared a brief moment of sympathy for Malfoy, pale and wild-eyed in the face of the Dark Lord's mental onslaught, before reverting to his own toad-like thoughts.

"Try harder," the Dark Lord snapped at Malfoy, releasing him after several minutes. "I gave you the girl for procreation, not recreation. If you prove to be as poor a sire as Lucius, I'll give her to someone else."

"Yes, my lord," Draco said humbly, debasing himself - but not enough.

" _Crucio_!"

As the blond wizard writhed on the floor and screamed, Neville dispassionately wondered if the torture would have an adverse impact on Malfoy's swimmers. For Hermione's sake, he almost hoped so - he couldn't picture her as a mum, not right now, not in the middle of a war. On the other hand, she was better off with Malfoy then almost any other Death Eater. As that thought floated to the surface of his mind, he deliberately suppressed it, thinking instead of a mossy patch of woods on the grounds of his gran's property that qualified as toad paradise.

"I expect you to have a Malfoy bastard planted in her belly by Yule, Draco." Voldemort's voice was implacable. "Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, my lord," Malfoy whimpered.

Neville looked away, knowing Malfoy would detest any show of sympathy. Glancing around the room, he saw Rookwood fidgeting with his wand, clearly nervous that he might be questioned about Susan. Marcus Flint, however, was too thick to appreciate the risk, while Carrow was leaning back in his chair in a relaxed fashion, which Neville thought did not bode well for Hannah.

Cruelly, Voldemort next focused his attentions on the fidgety Rookwood. "Well, Augustus, what do you have to say for yourself? I awarded you with a nubile young wife - what have you done with her?"

"Just as you wished, my lord," Rookwood assured him. "And I am most grateful for your gift. But miscarriages are so common among pureblood witches that I would not wish to announce Susan's condition until thirteen weeks have passed."

"Clever," Zabini acknowledged, offering what was - for him - wildly enthusiastic praise for Rookwood's answer. "You'd expect the head of the Department of Mysteries to be clever, though."

Neville gave a tiny nod, feeling guilty that he had been so wrapped up in Hannah's plight that he had forgotten about her best friend, the former Susan Bones, married off to a mad scientist of a Death Eater three times her age.

"Thirteen?" mused the Dark Lord. "That's a rather powerful number, albeit unlucky. You'll let me know as soon as your wife reaches that milestone, won't you?"

Rookwood nodded, looking relieved. "Yes, my lord. Of course."

Brutus Flint stepped into breach before Voldemort could question his thick-headed son about Katie Bell. "The chit's been ill the past week or so," he advised. "But Marcus and I don't know how to cast this charm to diagnose a pregnancy - "

"Morons," Blaise muttered. "Mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging morons. How the fuck do you keep some bint from entrapping you if you can't tell if she's preggers or not?"

"I think Katie's the one who's trapped," Neville whispered back. He had never really thought about witches' rights - really, his redoubtable grandmother was the equal of every wizard he knew of, except maybe Dumbledore - but the boundless misogyny of the Death Eaters was turning him into a feminist.

" - so should we take her to St. Mungo's?" the elder Flint concluded.

Voldemort narrowed his red eyes at the inanity of the question. "Surely your wife is capable of checking the girl?"

"Yeah, but we can't trust my mum not to hex Katie," Marcus spoke up.

"Fine, take her to St. Mungo's." The Dark Lord waved a pale and spindly hand in dismissal. "Cast a Glamour so no well-meaning Healer is tempted to rescue her."

The Flints grunted in agreement, even as the Dark Lord turned his attention to Amycus Carrow, who now had his booted feet propped up on the polished dining room table. "Well, headmaster?"

"My Hannah's barren as a desert," Carrow shook his head in mock sorrow, shooting a malicious glance in Neville's direction. "I can't get her pregnant, and neither can any of the other wizards who've had her. And she's a right little cumbucket, with at least one cock in her every night, and usually two or three."

Neville saw red. Bloody Gryffindor red. He and Hannah had made up after their row and his thoughtless comment. Things between them still were strained, though, both of them feeling tainted by what they had to do to survive. But even if they had been entirely on the outs, even if he hadn't been hardened by the acts committed as a Death Eater, Neville still would want Carrow dead for his treatment of Hannah. "I am going to kill him," he vowed.

Smith sneered at him. "You haven't managed it yet, and the school year's almost over."

Neville seethed at the truth of that statement. "It's because Carrow's a fucking coward, always hiding in the headmaster's office."

Goyle's beefy elbow poked his side. "Ribbit, ribbit," said the Slytherin, reminding Neville to maintain his mental control.

"What the fuck!?" Zabini exclaimed, keeping his voice low. "That's a frog, not a toad."

"Well, I don't know what toads say," Goyle defended himself. "I'm just trying to keep Longbottom out of trouble. You're a toad. What do toads do with flies?" he asked Neville.

"How thick are you, Goyle? You already asked him that. Besides, everyone knows toads eat flies," Smith answered, taking the question at face value. He was not privy to Neville's Occlumency training.

Blaise made a face. "Gross. If you want to be precise about what toads do, they lure flies and other insects in order to kill them." He gave a significant look towards Carrow's squat form and Neville blinked in deliberate acknowledgement.

 _Message sent and received_. Now, he just had a think of an appropriate lure. With a flare of guilt, he thought immediately of his round-cheeked, pig-tailed and formerly innocent girlfriend. Hannah would be the perfect lure.

"Well, Longbottom, what say you? Should the Abbott girl be discarded as sterile?" Nott demanded, with no apparent emotion at the prospect of murdering a teenage girl other than impatience at Neville's inattention.

Neville shrugged, focusing on the remembered pattern of bumps on Trevor the toad's hide. "Seems premature to me. Hannah's on the potion, or she was when we were dating. I'm not a Medi-wizard, but I think it's effective at preventing pregnancy for at least a couple of months even after a witch stops taking it." He hoped that was the right thing to say, the right tone to strike. He hoped that Hannah would forgive him.

After a glance to his master, Nott turned back to Neville, raising his voice slightly so the verdict on Hannah's fate carried throughout the room. "Fine. The girl can have some more time to prove her worth as a breeder."

Neville nodded once, his face and eyes as expressionless as any amphibian. Hannah wouldn't thank him for subjecting her to more nights on her back, servicing clients at Carrow's behest, but Neville knew she still wanted to survive, to live. She had told him that so long as there was life, there was hope, and Hannah was clinging to the hope of better days with a badger's tenacity.

Increasingly, Neville thought she was a fool.

 **A/N: Thanks so much for the comments on the last chapter, which did push this story over 1000 reviews! I'm happy to hear so many of you like Audrey - she's not an OC, but there is so little about her in canon that she's basically a blank slate. Special shout outs to powderkeg, because I liked the Xmas reference coming right around so-called Christmas in July, and to murmurous-haunt / Girl in Room 29, who made the most gorgeous aesthetic for this story on tumblr. Do check it out!**


	45. Hermione Gets a Letter

**_June 24, 1998_**

During the morning mail delivery, a nondescript brown owl, wearing a collar indicating it belonged to the Ministry of Magic, landed on the Slytherin table between Draco and Hermione.

Hermione could see that letter tied to its leg, bearing the MoM's seal, was addressed to her, care of Malfoy. With a raised eyebrow, he untied the parchment and opened it, while she fed a sausage link to the bird and offered it a saucer of water. It took the treat and ignored the drink, flying away with a hoot.

"What does it say?" she asked tightly. Hermione could not imagine that anything from the Voldemort-controlled Ministry would be good news.

"Read it yourself," Malfoy suggested, passing it over with an amused smirk that did much to allay her anxiety.

She took the piece of parchment from his fingers, tamping down the resentment that she didn't even have the right to receive her own correspondence any more. It wasn't Malfoy's fault, after all.

It was a brief, officious letter from Percy Weasley, informing her that as a half-blood witch enrolled at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she was obligated to sit for her Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests the following week. He directed her to present this letter to the headmaster or his deputy immediately so that appropriate arrangements could be made.

"'With best wishes for success in your educational endeavors. Signed and sealed by Percy Ignatius Weasley, Special Assistant to the Minister of Magic,'" Blaise read over her shoulder. "Why doesn't he just save some ink and sign it 'Pompously, Percy?'" he asked rhetorically.

"He's not so bad," Hermione defended the middle Weasley son out of habit.

Zabini rolled his eyes as he turned to his snickering best friend. "You are _so_ getting laid tonight, Drake. Granger's knickers are probably damp as we speak at the thought of getting to take her NEWTs."

"Do you really think I'll have to wait that long?" Draco waggled his eyebrows. "I'll just find an empty classroom and bend her over a desk."

Hermione flushed despite herself, recalling several times over the past couple of weeks when he had done just that. Not that she had any complaints. Shagging him was currently the best thing in her life, and Hermione thought that might hold true even if Voldemort had not won and turned the world to shit.

"I thought that you snakes prided yourself on being subtle rather than crude," she sniffed in response to their teasing, not denying Draco's boasting.

"You're a Gryffindor. Crudity is what you understand best," he opined, twining his index finger around a curl to pull her face closer to his. "Besides, you know I always play to my audience."

Malfoy was far too clever to glance towards the High Table, where Carrow was watching them with his beady eyes, or towards the younger vipers at the Slytherin table. Still, Hermione understood perfectly.

She also understood that he had played to his audience at last night's Death Eater meeting. Voldemort had not been entirely pleased with the performance - Hermione had spent half the night holding Draco as he trembled from the aftereffects of the Cruciactus Curse - but it had bought them months, until Yule, to find and destroy Ravenclaw's diadem. The destruction would be the easy part, with a basilisk fang hidden in Hermione's beaded bag, but they were stymied in finding the Horcrux. Draco was keeping his ears open, however, and as soon as school was out, she had a list of places significant to the former Tom Riddle for them to search.

She had already decided that she would continue on her birth control pills through the end of July, hoping the end of the seventh month would bring about the Dark Lord's fall as hinted at in the prophecy. Perhaps Harry had failed because he had acted in May, with characteristic rashness. Maybe if he had waited until his eighteenth birthday, as the seventh month died, the outcome would have been different. He would have lived and the Light would have won.

If August arrived with Voldemort still in power, Hermione was going to forego any contraceptives and let the chips fall where they may. And if she hadn't fallen pregnant by Halloween, then she would try fertility potions, even though they would wreak havoc with her magic. If she was having any Death Eater's baby, she was determined that it was going to be Malfoy's.

Draco snapped in fingers in front of her face, regaining her full attention. "Earth to Granger." His grey eyes were shining with amusement. "Fantasizing about me again, pet?"

"Not quite," she answered seriously. "Nothing naughty, for certain." The vivid mental image of his pale, aristocratic hands splayed protectively over her pregnancy-swollen abdomen was far from a fantasy, but it might be her reality if they could not figure out a way to defeat the Dark Lord in the upcoming weeks.

"She's thinking about revising for her NEWTs," Blaise chortled. "You're a lucky bastard, to have such a sexy swot at your beck and call."

Both ignored him, though Hermione twitched at the insult Zabini so casually tossed at his best friend. Any children she had with Draco would be illegitimate. There was no question of marriage, even if she supposedly was a half-blood instead of a Mudblood. _I expect you to have a Malfoy bastard planted in her belly by Yule, Draco_. Those were his orders from the Dark Lord, and Malfoy would obey them.

"May I go and see Professor McGonagall now?" Hermione asked, with every appearance of meekness, feeling a sudden need to escape the Slytherin table. "I'm done eating."

Draco stroked her hair in approval as he eyed the remains of her hearty breakfast. "That's a good girl. We need to keep your strength up. Finish your pumpkin juice and then you can go."

The indulgent condescension in his voice made her bridle, even if she knew it was an act. She swallowed the rest of the too-sweet juice with a grimace. She preferred tea in the mornings, but Malfoy insisted upon pumpkin juice, which he claimed was more nutritious. She saw Blaise shoot him a significant look, one that Hermione could not quite interpret.

"Greg, take Granger to McGonagall's office and wait for her there," Draco ordered. "Blaise wanted to show me something in the dormitory, so we'll meet you outside of the Defense classroom. Got it?"

Goyle gave a grunt of acknowledgement at his instructions. He stood from the table and, with surprising courtesy, gestured for Hermione to precede him.

She left the Great Hall at a brisk pace, Goyle trailing after her. She had intended to go straight to Professor McGonagall's office, just outside the Transfiguration classroom, until she saw Hannah Abbott slinking into the girls' lavatory on the third floor.

"I need to use the loo," Hermione told her bodyguard, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to another.

"Draco didn't say . . . . " Goyle protested.

"Please. I've really got to go," she lied. "And I'm feeling a bit sick to my stomach."

That second fib was the clincher, as Goyle waved her towards the entrance of the girls' loo. "Er, okay. I hope it's nothing. I mean, I hope it's something but you're okay," he said inarticulately.

"I'll be fine," Hermione promised, feeling an unexpected sort of affection towards the hulking Slytherin, given his evident concern and blatant loyalty to Malfoy.

She followed Hannah into the girls' lavatory. As she half-expected, the Hufflepuff was waiting for her by the sinks.

"Do you have them?" Hannah asked, without preamble. Her blue eyes, outlined in heavy black kohl, ill-suited to her round face, darted from side to side to make sure they were alone.

"I do, enough to get you through the summer," Hermione proffered the packets of birth control pills, "but you might not want them."

"Of course I want them!" Hannah snapped. "I'm not having any of those arseholes get me up the duff!"

"There was a Death Eater meeting last night," Hermione explained. "Malfoy told me there was concern you haven't yet fallen pregnant. There was some discussion about whether you should be discarded."

"Killed, you mean?" Hannah asked bluntly. "Some nights, I think it would be a mercy." She took the packets from Hermione's hand. "I'll keep this much control over my life, thank you very much."

She hesitated, looking vulnerable under her heavy makeup. "Did Neville say anything about me?"

Hermione nodded. "Draco told me that Neville said you'd been on the potion. That bought you a couple more months," she related.

Hannah snorted. "Is anything going to change in the next two months?" she asked, a question that was both cynical and rhetorical.

"I don't know," Hermione answered, truthfully enough, though she never would have trusted the Hufflepuff witch with any secrets. It wasn't a question of her loyalty, but rather one of obedience. Carrow had his claws sunk too deep into Hannah.

"How are you holding up?" Hermione asked, wanting to lend Hannah whatever support she could.

"As well as can be expected," the other girl answered in a dead voice, which Hermione knew meant she was not holding up well at all. "At least Nev's sticking up for me now. Even lying for me."

"That's good," Hermione said, hiding her uncertainty about whether that reconciliation might have consequences. She suspected that Carrow's treatment of Hannah was not just due to his own innate cruelty, but also a desire to see Neville suffer and ultimately snap.

"Well, thank you for the pills," Hannah said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, Amycus wanted me in his office before classes start."

"Of course," Hermione muttered awkwardly, not wanting to know the details.

Goyle was waiting patiently outside the lavatory. Other than asking if she felt better, he stayed silent for the rest of the walk to Professor McGonagall's office. Hermione was happy that he was not much of a talker, since that allowed her the luxury of her own uninterrupted thoughts.

Professor McGonagall was marking essays, but her head snapped up as soon as Hermione and Goyle entered the room. "Miss Granger, Mister Goyle. Is there something I may assist you with? Something _academic_?" she asked warily, her brogue heavier on the last word to emphasize the restrictions she was laboring under.

Hermione smiled, trying to keep a brave face despite the collar around the elder witch's neck. She knew that some of the Slytherin boys, those who aspired to become Death Eaters, had taken to tormenting the professor by asking her questions unrelated to Transfiguration, trying to provoke an answer that would trigger to collar to tighten and cut off her air supply.

Malfoy had stifled this activity in his own inimitable way, sneering that he was more impressed by potential recruits who targeted those Order members who still could fight back. Hermione still would have hexed them all with genital warts if they weren't among Hannah's most frequent customers. Instead, she had settled on a spiking their pitcher of pumpkin juice with a potion that would cause their teeth to decay and eventually fall out, ensuring a miserable treatment with Skele-grow in their near future. Of course, she had told Professor McGonagall nothing about this, since any non-academic conversation would cause the collar around the Transfiguration professor's neck to tighten further.

"I received this from the Ministry," Hermione said, holding out the letter. "It says to bring it to you, so you can make the necessary arrangements for my NEWTS."

"I would be pleased to do so," Professor McGonagall said, after taking the letter and scanning it. "However," she took a deep breath, drawing as much air as possible into her lungs, "you will require your own Transfiguration textbook to revise, rather than sharing one with Mister Malfoy. There is a used one on my shelf that you may take."

There was an unmistakably feline look of slyness in the professor's eyes, even as the collar constricted, making her choke.

Hermione hastily snatched the text from the shelf, realizing it had to be important. "Thank you, Professor. For everything!"

Professor McGonagall waved her away, unable to speak due to collar's pressure. Hermione would have stayed, to try and help, but Goyle grabbed her arm and dragged her out of the office.

"She'll stop choking when we're gone," he promised gruffly. "Dunno what she did to set it off."

Hermione realized that last comment was not made out of stupidity, as she once would have assumed, but to preserve plausible deniability. Like the loyal henchman he was, Goyle would undoubtedly tell Malfoy to check the Transfiguration textbook, but would not take it any further up the Death Eaters' chain of command.

As it turned out, Goyle did not have to tell Malfoy anything. When they arrived outside of the Defense classroom - no one called it DADA anymore, since the curriculum focused on teaching rather than defending against the Dark Arts - Malfoy took one look before dragging her into the nearest broom closet.

"What's going on?" he demanded, as soon as the door was shut and locking and silencing charms were in place. "You look as smug as a Kneazle."

Hermione had thought her poker face was improving, but Malfoy had a knack for reading her. "Professor McGonagall gave me something," she said, enthusiastically showing him the textbook.

"You truly are mental when it comes to studying, Granger," he shook his head.

"It's not that. Her collar choked her when she gave it to me, so there must be something in here. Maybe a message from the Order." Hermione eagerly flipped through the pages until she found a worn, creased piece of parchment affixed between two pages. She gasped in excitement. Thinking back to the battle, she realized Harry must have given to Professor McGonagall at some point, since she had been the _de facto_ general of the Hogwarts' forces.

"That's it?" Draco eyed the apparently blank piece of parchment with derision. "You're not the only mental Gryffindor, if McGonagall risked being throttled for that."

Hermione decided a practical demonstration was in order. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

She felt Draco's lean body stiffen next to hers as the castle's rooms and occupants began to appear on the Marauders' Map. "I stand corrected, Granger. A map like that is worth running a risk for. May I?"

At her nod, he took it from her hands and began a closer inspection. "Salazar, this is amazing! And dead useful." He looked at her over the top edge of the map. "I take it this is how you, Potter, and the Weasel were able to get into so much trouble without ever being caught?"

Hermione grinned. "We didn't get in _that_ much trouble," she offered a token protest.

Malfoy snorted. "Of course not. Pity we're only here for about another week."

Hermione shook off the chill she felt. When the school year ended, she would be going with Malfoy, to Malfoy Manor - the place where she had been tortured to the edge of her sanity and Voldemort's current headquarters.

She fought to keep her voice steady. "I think, now that I have the map, I can reverse engineer the charms to create something similar for any large, externally warded magical structure."

"Like the Manor," Draco said, immediately catching her meaning. "That would be brilliant."

" _You're_ brilliant," he added, taking a small step closer to snog her with enthusiasm. He broke off when she was breathless, nuzzling against the side of her neck, unbuttoning her uniform blouse with deft fingers.

Hermione felt a bubbling euphoria, like champagne fizzing in her veins. Part of it was having the Marauders' Map in her possession, part of it - Zabini's mocking aside - was excitement over being allowed to take her NEWTs, but much of it was Draco's mouth sucking lightly on her pulse point as he pushed her bra up to fondle her breasts with warm, callused palms. It was hope mixed with a healthy shot of lust, and it made her feel as brilliant as Malfoy said she was.

"How much time do we have until class?" she asked, trying to stay sensible before the situation spiraled entirely out of control.

"Not quite ten minutes," Draco admitted, after a quick twist of his wrist to glance at his watch. Hermione caught herself whining at the lack of attention to her breasts, a whine that intensified as he reluctantly stepped away.

She stepped forward, dropping her hands to busily begin working at his belt. She looked up at him through her eyelashes with a wicked grin. "That's plenty of time," she promised.

 **A/N: Last chapter got twice the number of reviews as usual, largely due to muddier waters, who reviewed every chapter in one sitting. So thank you! Thank you as well to xXMiss Alec VolturiXx, who has given similarly short and sweet reviews on every chapter since TLLH began, to turbulenthandholding, who caught up on the last five chapters with a handful of enthusiastic review, and to .serpent, for a review from her/his vacation that made me laugh! Been there, done that ...**


	46. Draco Loses a Duel

**_June 24, 1998_**

Draco was right on the edge, breathing hard as he held Granger up against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, pounding into her. Notwithstanding his reputation as the Slytherin sex god - he had Pansy's gossip to thank for that - he was not cocky enough to believe that he would be able to make most witches climax during a quickie in a broom closet, but the brand on Granger's back made her unusually responsive.

"I want you to come, lioness," he said huskily, knowing her body would take it as a literal command.

Right on cue, her inner walls began the clench around his thrusting cock, dragging him over the edge to his own climax. "Sweet Salazar!" he groaned at the intensely pleasurable sensation as she milked him dry.

When he was spent, Draco rested his forehead against hers until they both had caught their breath, supporting Hermione on her now-shaky legs. He knew it was risky to show such affection towards a witch who was intended to be nothing more than a concubine, but she was more than that. More than a co-conspirator, too, if he was being honest with himself.

" _Sweet_ Salazar?" Hermione asked with a skeptical inflection, as she came down from her high. "Did you just slander the founder of Slytherin house?"

"It's just an expression," Draco said, mildly defensive. "I'm sure he could be sweet to those he cared about." He pointed his wand down to Scourgify himself, hissing at the abrasive sensation, and grabbed a clean rag off a nearby shelf, using his wand to wet it. Granger would be too sore and sensitive to want to clean herself with magic.

"Like his killer pet basilisk," Granger agreed, with a straight face and amused look in her amber-brown eyes. She accepted the damp rag from his hands and briskly scrubbed between her legs before pulling up her knickers and pulling her bra back into place, concealing her breasts from his appreciative gaze.

"You're insatiable," she huffed.

"And you love it," Draco smirked. He actually was feeling quite satiated in the moment, contentment infusing his body and mind in the wake of his release, but he still could enjoy the view as she buttoned up her shirt.

"One of the few lovable traits you possess," Granger shot back, not quite able to hide a smile. "Do you have the Map?" she asked, suddenly worried.

Draco nodded, reaching up to the high shelf where he had placed it for safekeeping.

"Say 'mischief managed' and tap it with your wand," she instructed.

He did so, and offered her the now-blank piece of parchment.

"You should probably hold onto it," Hermione said, biting at her lip.

"I'll keep it safe," he promised, knowing it probably was hard for her to give up one of the last tangible links to Potter and happier times. But the map would be safer with him - no one in the castle would dare to search a Marked and apparently loyal Death Eater.

Down the hall, Carrow leered knowingly as Draco emerged from the broom closet less than a minute before class was to begin, pulling a still-disheveled Hermione behind him. Her hand flexed within his larger one, the only sign of discomfort she allowed herself to show at Carrow's insulting appraisal. Draco squeezed back, in a silent show of support.

"Malfoy! Don't be late, or yer doxy will pay the price!" the older Death Eater called. "That goes for all of you!" He glowered at arriving seventh year students, some of whom broke into a trot at the threat. Carrow was known to punish tardiness with the Cruciactus Curse. His class might not be well-taught, but it did start on time.

Rather than hurrying, Draco sauntered towards the Dark Arts classroom. If there was one thing he had learned as a Death Eater, it was that showing fear only made things worse. He timed their arrival precisely to avoid any punishment being doled out to Granger, settling into a seat behind Greg and Longbottom - an odd friendship, that - just as Carrow strode to the front of the classroom to begin class.

"Pair up," he ordered. "The person in front or behind you, not who yer sitting next to. Today's lesson is how to use spells like a knife."

Draco relaxed minutely. Neither Hermione nor Greg would try to hurt the other in a practice duel. He could not say the same for Longbottom's intentions towards himself - the Gryffindor was glaring at him with evil intent.

After a brief lecture on cutting curses and slicing hexes, the various pairs took up positions on opposite sides of the classroom and began slinging spells at one another. Draco focused on his own duel, tuning out the litany of hexes and curses interspersed with yelps and cries of pain. Longbottom was powerful and surprisingly fast, but Draco was more agile and had a larger repertoire of Dark spells, far more than the few Carrow had just taught. After more than a quarter-hour, he had a few nicks and scratches, while Longbottom was bleeding heavily from a puncture wound to his upper arm and a deep graze to his ribs. But the obstinate bastard still wouldn't yield, much to Draco's annoyance.

"Alright, nothing fatal, but do what you need to end it," Carrow impatiently ordered the handful of still-dueling pairs after twenty minutes. "Some of these losers need the hospital wing."

" _Expelliarmus_!" Draco heard Hermione call out, as she stopped toying with Greg and won her duel.

Inspiration struck. "Disarm me," he hissed to Longbottom.

"What?" the Gryffindor asked, the scar on his forehead crinkled in confusion.

"Disarm me. Now!" he repeated. This time, Longbottom listened, and Draco's hawthorne wand went sailing into his hand. Draco felt a pang of loss, mixed with tremendous relief. If Granger's wild theories had any foundation - if he had ever been the Chosen One, or the Master of the Elder Wand - he had just passed those burdens to Longbottom. He would much rather be the one pulling the strings, instead of the puppet.

"Good match," Neville said, returning Draco's wand with sickening Gryffindor chivalry.

" _Crucio_!" Carrow screamed, as Greg bellowed in pain. Draco spun around, to see his friend convulsing in pain on the floor. The older Death Eater's cheeks were mottled in visible anger. "Yer a disgrace, Goyle," he sneered. "Losing yer wand to Malfoy's bint."

"Mudblood witches and blood traitors are only good for two things," the Defense professor lectured, raising his voice so the entire class could here. "Fucking and target practice. Malfoy's already used her for the first, right before class, and now she and I are going to duel and show you idiots why her side lost the war."

Draco saw that Granger's face was red, with both humiliation and anger. He also knew there was little he could do for her. Carrow was a vicious fighter, and liked to use his class as an opportunity to abuse his students. "No spells that might impact her fertility or cause a miscarriage," he stipulated in a bored voice. "And nothing that scars - I like her face and body as they are."

"Fine." Carrow waved him off. "Ready, girlie?"

Before Hermione could answer, he shot a sickly-looking yellow spell at her. She barely got a shield up in time. The duel that followed was quick and brutal. Blaise, who would bet on anything, barely had time to arrange wagers with Zacharias Smith and Ravenclaw Stephen Cornfoot before it was over.

" _Sectumsempra_!" Granger screamed. Carrow's eyes widened as he ducked the unexpectedly Dark spell.

Potter's favorite Dark Arts spell was just a diversion. Draco nodded in approval of her tactics when Granger followed it up with a wordless slicing hex that severed the tendons in Carrow's wrist, causing his wand to clatter to the stone floor.

" _Accio_ Carrow's wand," Hermione said contemptuously, not bothering to use his title, catching it in the air.

But then Carrow launched himself at her, tackling her onto the ground and punching her hard in the face. Draco cringed at the sound of cracking bone and the dull thud as the back of Hermione's head connected with the stone floor. It was like Malfoy Manor all over again, and he was going to have to stand by while she screamed. He knew that anything he did to intervene just would make it worse.

"Filthy slag," the headmaster panted, knees planted on her upper arms, pinning her down. "Yer not a real witch," he hissed in her ear, before backhanding her.

She moaned in pain, and Carrow looked up at Malfoy. "Is that the sound she makes when you stick yer dick in her?" he jeered.

That taunting cost him dearly, as Hermione recovered enough to tighten her grip on her wand and aim it minutely upwards. From the hateful look in her eyes, Draco was convinced she was going to use an Unforgivable on Carrow, and was relieved when she merely Stunned him, albeit with enough force to send the wizard flying off her and across the classroom. But then she pulled herself to her feet and leveled her wand at Carrow, not caring that he was wandless and unconscious.

" _Impotus_ ," she snarled, a spell that made most wizards in the room protectively cross their legs.

"Sit down, Granger. You've done enough damage," Draco said in a harsh voice. To his watching classmates, it would sound like a reprimand, while he hoped Hermione would understand that any further harm to Carrow, in front of a room full of witnesses, would get both of them in trouble. To his relief, she obeyed.

"Class is over. Get out!" he announced, emptying the room. When only he, Blaise, Greg, Longbottom and Granger remained, along with the inert firm of their professor, Draco gently tilted up her chin, examining the damage. Her nose was broken and bleeding freely, staining her white uniform blouse.

"Red really isn't my favorite color, Granger," he tried to joke.

"I've got this," Blaise said with confidence. "See, back in third year, some girl broke Drake's nose and I had to fix it when he was too embarrassed to go see Madam Pomfrey." He winked at Granger and she laughed despite her evident pain.

" _Episkey_ ," Blaise said, while she was distracted.

She yelped, but her nose was healed.

" _Tergeo_." Draco's spell siphoned the blood from her face, but he could do nothing about the bloodstains on her clothing or residual bruising. "Let's get you changed before Transfiguration. McGonagall will have kittens if she sees you like this."

"What about him?" Neville asked, prodding Carrow's body with his foot.

"Leave him," Draco directed. "He'll come around on his own, and I'll keep Granger away from him until he calms down."

"So until about forever," Blaise stated.

Draco had to agree with that pessimistic assessment. Carrow was going to hold a grudge over his public defeat. "At least until the school year ends. Thank Merlin that's less than a week," he sighed.

By the time curfew arrived, Draco was more than ready for the day to be over. He was idly examining the Marauders' Map for stragglers rushing back to their dormitories while Granger brushed her teeth, when he saw something that made him swear, loudly and long.

"What is it?" She burst out of the bathroom.

Draco took a brief moment to admire her deshabille - hair loose, and wearing nothing other than one of his old Quidditch jerseys and maybe a pair of knickers - before showing her the map. "Look at this," he said, pointing out the dot in Greenhouse Five labeled _Hannah Abbott,_ sandwiched between _Malcolm Baddock_ and _Graham Pritchard_. A small crowd was watching or waiting their turn - Draco could make out Carrow's name and Zacharias Smith, as well as several other sixth and seventh year boys.

"Ugh," Hermione wrinkled her nose in disgust and sympathy. "I wish there something we could do for her."

"Abbott's not the problem," Draco said callously. "It's Longbottom and Greg." He pointed to two dots lurking off to the side, probably poorly hidden by a plant. "Longbottom's going to get them both killed. Then we'll be down another Chosen One and I'll be out another friend," he said grimly, remembering the horror of Crabbe's screams as he burnt to death.

"So we can go and help them?" Granger asked, eyes bright.

"Fucking Gryffindors," Draco swore, even as she pulled on a pair of leggings and grabbed her wand.

 **A/N: As always, thanks for last chapter's reviews - I especially liked reading your reactions to Greg Goyle. So special mention to Nicole O, who I know shares my head canon of Goyle as a big softie, and Kyonimoko. I totally agree with her take on the Map as a tactical resource!**


	47. Neville's Favorite Plant

**A/N: Trigger warnings - forced prostitution/non-con and violence/character death**

 ** _June 24, 1998_**

It was cramped under the Invisibility Cloak. Neville was tall and had grown broader in the shoulders over the past year, while Goyle always had been husky. Adding to Neville's discomfort, his feet felt like they were coated in cold egg. To be safe, Goyle had Disillusioned them - a spell that Neville could not perform himself, given the restrictions on his wand. Still, they were well-hidden, which was a good thing, because there were quite an unexpected number of people down in the greenhouses.

Just last night, after the meeting at Malfoy Manor, Neville had met with Hannah at their usual spot in Greenhouse Five. There, he had enlisted her help in entrapping Carrow by asking her to tell him about their secret meeting place. She had readily agreed and made the mock confession to the headmaster this morning, right before his classes began, hoping that would leave him less time to punish her.

It had been a solid plan.

Neville had assumed Carrow would plan some sort of sexual scene with Hannah in the greenhouse, and had even counted on him being distracted by the rape he was committing. Now, he realized he had underestimated the man's capacity for creative cruelty. He also had not anticipated that Carrow would lose a classroom duel to Hermione, leaving him temporarily impotent. Neville had spent his night so far watching in a helpless rage as his girlfriend was prostituted out to every pimply-faced berk in the castle, while the headmaster looked on with a cold smirk and voyeur's pleasure.

Periodically, boisterous groups of two and three boys passed by their hiding place, heading back to their dormitories and bragging about their evening.

"Salazar's rod, Abbott sucked me like I was a lolly!"

" - can't believe Professor Carrow let everyone have a free ride tonight."

"He won't be able to get it up for a week, but said that's no reason we can't have our fun."

"Didya see how I titty fucked her?"

Neville growled low in his throat.

"Am I going to have to put you in Body-Bind again?" Goyle asked.

Having received an invitation to Carrow's party, he had known what to expect when he offered to accompany Neville to the greenhouses. As soon as they were in position, hidden under the Invisibility Cloak and behind a screen of ferns, he had hit Neville in the back with a sneaky _Petrificus Totalus_.

"No," Neville gritted out between clenched teeth. "Ribbit _fucking_ ribbit - I'm focused on catching the big fly." While he had not appreciated being paralyzed by Goyle's spell, he realized it had prevented him from doing anything suicidally stupid while outnumbered.

"Only a few more, and then we've got the odds we need," Goyle said consolingly. "D'ya have a plan since, er, your wand doesn't really work?"

"Yeah, I've got a plan," Neville said roughly. There was a reason he had wanted to ambush Carrow in this particular greenhouse.

"She'll be okay, you know," Goyle said awkwardly, carefully not looking in Hannah's direction. "Once this is over, I mean."

"No, I don't know that," Neville snarled. Physically, she seemed fine - Hogwarts boys were too young to have developed the sadistic tastes of older Death Eaters and tended to finish within minutes - but Hannah knew he was watching. He was not sure her mental health - or their relationship - would survive this latest round of torment inflicted by Carrow.

"What's that?" Goyle asked, peering towards the greenhouse door, where Cornfoot and two other guffawing Ravenclaws had just exited.

"Three fuckers who aren't nearly as clever as they think?" Neville suggested. He was a Death Eater, after all, and he was keeping a mental list of those taking advantage of Hannah's forced services.

"Not them," Goyle shook his head. "I think someone just came in."

Right by the door, Neville saw a blur of motion. He raised his wand to attack, too late.

" _Imperio_ ," a familiar voice whispered.

 _Put the wand down before you poke an eye out, you imbecilic Gryffindor_ , Malfoy drawled in his head. Obediently, Neville lowered his wand.

 _Now, nod if you and Goyle had enough brain cells between the two of you to cast an anti-eavesdropping charm_.

Neville nodded. Goyle had cast it.

 _Color me fucking amazed. Cancel it, and I'll recast it to include Granger and myself,_ ordered Malfoy.

"Goyle, Malfoy told me to have you cancel the Muffliato spell," relayed Neville.

The hulking Slytherin's eyes widened in comprehension. He cancelled the spell with a look of relief, probably that Malfoy was now here to tell him what to do.

" _Muffliato_ ," the blond wizard recast it immediately.

Goyle's relief was short-lived as Malfoy lit into him. "What the fuck are you doing here, Greg? Of all the moronic things you've done, this might be the worst - right up with the time you ate doxy eggs because you thought they were Bertie Botts' Beans!"

"You're here, too," Goyle said sullenly.

"I happen to be sleeping with a Gryffindor," Malfoy explained in a haughty voice. "I hope to Salazar that's not your excuse!"

Goyle cleared his throat and muttered something to the ground. "- friends," he finished, the only word Neville caught.

That made him feel unexpectedly warm inside, like he had just drank a Butterbeer. "Why's Hermione so quiet?" he asked.

"Whoops," Malfoy said, looking unabashed as he pointed his wand at her Disillusioned figure. " _Finite Incantum_."

"I can't believe you Silenced me, Draco Malfoy!" Hermione seethed. She still was a Disillusioned blur, but Neville could see her lips moving.

"I knew you wouldn't be able to restrain yourself from casting some hexes otherwise, Granger," Malfoy defended himself.

"What's wrong with them?" Hermione demanded, her voice shaking with rage. "Hannah's their classmate, but they're treating her like she's not even a person!"

"They don't see her as one," Malfoy explained. "The first thing you do in any war is to dehumanize the enemy. We're at war, Granger."

Goyle grunted in cynical agreement.

"You're not like that," she insisted. "None of you."

Neville shuffled his feet, feeling uncomfortable with Hermione's naïveté. He never had raped a witch, but he had tortured and murdered at the Dark Lord's orders.

"Not with you," Malfoy said, as close as he would ever come to an admission.

"We're down to the last two and Carrow," Goyle said. It was an unnecessary observation but worked to change the uncomfortable subject.

"Here, Greg. Take this. Watch to make sure no one else comes down here." Malfoy handed his fellow Slytherin a worn sheet of parchment that Neville recognized as Harry's fabled Marauder's Map. Goyle nodded and began examining the map, taking his job seriously.

Neville looked around in alarm as Hannah made a gagging sound and then narrowed his eyes at Zacharias Smith. Neville felt like retching, too, albeit for a different reason. "I want Smith," he said.

"Fine," Malfoy shrugged. "We need a scapegoat, and I suppose Harper has some utility as a Seeker."

Neville made a mental note of the wizard's name mounting his girlfriend. Harper was done within minutes, leaving the greenhouses with a satisfied grin. At his departure, Carrow stood up from the armchair he had conjured earlier in the evening, stretching his spine with an audible pop. "Hurry up, Hannah, and finish Smith off," he barked. "I'm knackered. If he hasn't come down your throat in the next minute, ye'll be getting the belt."

Hannah bobbed her head frantically at Carrow's command, her eyes wide with fear.

"Yer worthless sod of a boyfriend couldn't be arsed to show up. Guess he doesn't want to ride the village bicycle anymore," Carrow observed cruelly, hands toying with his belt buckle.

"Cover me," Neville muttered, unable to take anymore.

"Here, arsehole!" he yelled, sprinting from under the Invisibility Cloak, straight at Carrow. He hit him with a prank jinx, one that turned his nose into a pig's snout and made him oink. It also would prevent him from casting any spells verbally, and the headmaster was not adept at wordless magic. "Come and fight me!"

Neville took off running down one of the greenhouse's side aisles. As he turned the corner, he deliberately slowed his pace, allowing Carrow to catch up. Then he spun around and cast a Tripping Jinx, a harmless first-year spell, except that it caused the headmaster to go sprawling within reach of the Devil's Snare that inhabited this shadowy corner of Greenhouse Four.

" _Rictusempra_!" The silvery light of the Tickling Charm struck Carrow's flabby belly, making him convulse with laughter. It was a basic spell that Professor Flitwick taught every second year student, but it sealed Carrow's fate as his thrashing agitated the Devil's Snare.

"Good girl," Neville cooed. Like all talented gardeners, he spoke to his plants when he tended them. This particular Devil's Snare had always struck him as a female, occasionally giving him a motherly swat or comforting caress with her outermost tendrils if he ventured too close. "String him up nice and high, sweet pea."

The Devil's Snare wrapped multiple tendrils around Carrow's neck like a noose, while other tendrils pulled at his wrists until he was dangling a few inches off the ground. His face began to purple and his eyes rolled back as he futilely gasped for air. Neville watched with a small, satisfied smile.

"Let me go!" Hannah screamed frantically. "I need to save him!"

Neville spun around to see his girlfriend, her nakedness now covered by Slytherin school robes that were far too large for her, kicking and clawing at a nonplussed Gregory Goyle as he held her back.

"When will the compulsion break?" Hermione asked Malfoy, training her wand on the now-hysterical Hannah.

"Once Carrow's dead. Hold on to her until then," he directed Goyle, who wrapped Hannah in a bear hug, turning to block her view of the dying Death Eater.

" _Accio_ Carrow's wand," Hermione said, taking no chances. She caught the Death Eater's wand for the second time that day, pocketing it as she watched his death throes with a grim face and unwavering eyes. Malfoy stood at her shoulder, watching Carrow die with cool disdain, while Goyle was too focused on trying to calm Hannah to spare the headmaster a glance.

Neville turned away from his girlfriend, unable to watch her crying over a man who had treated her with nothing but brutality. He suspected that Hannah would despise herself for these tears once Carrow was dead and no longer controlled her. Until then, he consoled himself by watching the last moments before Carrow passed through the Veil, finding the man's thrashing to be a balm to his increasingly grey soul.

"Disgusting," Malfoy muttered, as Carrow voided his bowels and bladder.

"On so many levels," Hermione agreed, casting a charm to dissipate the smell. "Is he dead yet?"

" _Homenum Revelio_." Light flew from Malfoy's wand and branched off in five directions, touching Hermione, Neville, Goyle and Hannah, and the unconscious Zacharias Smith. Neville assumed one of the others had Stunned Smith while he dealt with Carrow.

"He's gone," Malfoy confirmed.

Hermione handed the dead Death Eater's wand to Hannah. "It's yours now. Do whatever you want with it."

Hannah swiped the tears from her face and took the wand. "It's mine," she agreed bitterly. "I certainly did enough to earn it." She looked at Carrow's hanging body with an expression that made Neville shiver.

" _Divesto_!" It was a small mercy that she left Carrow's pants on, even as she stripped his robe, shirt and trousers. Neville had no desire to see the dead wizard's genitalia.

"Here's what I really think of you, _Sir_ ," Hannah growled at the corpse. Using Carrow's own wand, she slashed a word on his fleshy cheek. _Pig_.

"You weren't my master. You were my pimp." She cut the four-letter word into his chest.

"I never liked it. I never wanted it, no matter what I said," Hannah sobbed. "Everything I did, you made me do it." She carved RAPIST, in blocky capital letters, across his stomach.

"You told me that I would be your whore until you killed me. But you're dead, and I'm free." Wildly, Hannah wielded her wand like a knife, scrawling words up and down Carrow's limp legs.

 _Rot in Hell!_

 _I am free!_

She stood back and regarded her handiwork and began to laugh, a brittle sound that made the hair on the back of Neville's neck rise.

"C'mon, Hannah. Let's go," he suggested. When they were away from Hogwarts, together again, he told himself things would get better - that _she_ would get better.

"You can't leave." That was Malfoy, ever the implacable bastard. "The Dark Lord will hunt you down through your Dark Mark and kill you."

"You're the Chosen One now. We need you to defeat him when the time comes," Hermione chimed in.

"I can do that when he finds me," Neville argued.

"He won't come for you himself," Malfoy shook his head. "He's not obsessed with you like he was with Potter."

"Yeah, he'll send someone else. Maybe us," Goyle said, looking distressed. "And if Hannah's with you, we'll have to get her, too."

"We're not ready to confront the Dark One," Hermione explained. "There's something Draco and I need to find and destroy first."

"Oh, so that's what you've been doing when you aren't shagging like rabbits?" Neville gibed. Her logic was inescapable, but all he wanted to do was escape.

Abruptly, Hannah's soft giggling ceased. "Don't talk to Hermione like that!" she snapped. "And don't you even think about tagging along to mollycoddle me when you have a job to do, Neville Frank Longbottom!"

Neville's shoulders slumped, partially in defeat and partially from the heavy burdens placed on him. "Alright," he agreed dully. "What about Hannah, though? She can't stay here." He glared at Malfoy and Hermione, daring them to contradict him.

"Of course not," Malfoy scoffed. "She can use Smith to get beyond the castle wards. Once she's out, she can Apparate to wherever she wants."

"There are safe houses all over the U.K.," Hermione said to Hannah in an encouraging sort of voice. "I can make arrangements for you to rendezvous with someone from the Order or Dumbledore's Army, depending on where you want to hide."

"I don't care where I go, but I want to fight," Hannah said resolutely.

Neville opened his mouth to protest, but Hermione forestalled him. "You'll want Belfast, then. Talk a walk around the botanical gardens tomorrow afternoon - Seamus or someone else you know will meet you there."

"Thanks," Hannah nodded. "What about Zacharias?" she asked, jerking her chin towards her still-unconscious housemate.

"Whatever you want," Malfoy shrugged. "Personally, I'd dump him in the Forbidden Forest."

Goyle grunted in agreement.

"I'll alter Smith's memories so he thinks he helped you kill Carrow," Hermione offered. "That'll keep him running like the coward he is."

"Until the Dark Lord catches him," Goyle predicted.

Hannah gave them all a bright smile. "I think that sounds like a great plan."

"No time like the present to implement it," Malfoy said, with a meaningful look at his wristwatch and the glass door leading from the greenhouse to the outdoors.

Neville stood there, feeling awkward, not sure how say good-bye. Hannah flung her arms around him, breaking the awkwardness. "I won't shatter," she said, before kissing him. "I hope you won't do anything stupid," she added, breaking away to give Hermione a hug.

"Erm, you can keep my robes," Goyle offered. "Maybe shrink them a bit, though."

"Okay." Hannah gave him a surprisingly warm smile before levitating Zacharias Smith with her new wand, making sure to bang his head against the doorframe as she exited the greenhouse.

"Alibis?" Malfoy demanded, giving Neville a pointed look.

"Er, Goyle and I were in the Slytherin dorms," Neville offered.

"We were playing chess," Goyle elaborated. "All night."

Malfoy nodded. "Blaise will vouch for you."

"And you?" Neville asked, wanting to make sure their stories were straight.

"I was in my rooms, getting a blow job," Malfoy said, clearly delighted to make Neville squirm.

Hermione snorted. "Please. That would take all of ten minutes."

The blond smirked and wrapped a possessive arm around her. "After sucking me off, my obedient little slave gave me a full body massage and then lovingly washed me in a warm bath. Then I shagged her over the side of the tub. Twice."

Hermione snorted again. "In your dreams, Malfoy."

He winked at her. "Only the naughty ones."

"Um, Drake, you need to see this," Goyle stated, interrupting their byplay. He pointed a thick finger at the edge of Marauder's Map, where Hogwarts' grounds gave way to the Forbidden Forest. As Neville peered over his shoulder, he saw a small dot labeled as _Hannah Abbott_ steadily making her way to the that boundary, _Zacharias Smith_ in tow.

Perhaps twenty feet away, on a parallel path, was a dot labeled _Harry Potter_.

"What the bloody fuck? That can't be right - Potter's dead!" exclaimed Malfoy.

"Maybe a ghost?" Hermione suggested, her face ashen.

Goyle shook his head. "Potter's too brave to become a ghost."

"We need to go and see him," Hermione said.

"Absolutely not!" Malfoy exploded. "We are not going into the Forbidden Forest at midnight to have a chat with Scarhead. He might be dead, but you can still get yourself killed!"

"I need to talk to him," she insisted.

"Later, Granger," Malfoy growled. "Talk to him in the castle during daylight hours - Merlin knows there are enough ghosts haunting the place."

Hermione opened her mouth, stubborn enough to keep arguing despite the brand on her back, but Goyle's simple words stopped her.

"Guys, he's gone. Potter's disappeared off the Map."

 **Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, with special thanks to ClassicsRetold1793, who snagged the first review (hope this meets your needs!) and amr56, whose plot-focused reviews keep me on my toes as to any potential inconsistencies. Finally, I've adopted ShayaLonnie's head canon as to the Revelio spell. If you aren't reading her Reclamation of Black Magic, you'll want to check it out!**


	48. Ginny Has a Busy Morning

**A/N: Trigger warnings for violence and character death.**

 ** _June 25, 1998_**

Ginny loathed breakfast. Once, it had been her favorite meal of the day - cheerful conversation at the Gryffindor table or massive fry-ups with her family around the scrubbed wooden table in the Burrow's kitchen. Now, she sat ramrod straight in an uncomfortable chair pulled up to the Lestranges' dining room table, sipping hot water with lemon and trying not to vomit on the polished wood as Rodolphus and Rabastan applied themselves to their food with the same voracious appetite they brought to everything they did.

Her "morning" sickness had not yet abated. Madam Fawley assured her that nausea at all hours was normal and even desirable, indicating a healthy baby, but she wasn't the one spending hours retching over a toilet, accompanied by a suspiciously friendly Horcrux. The midwife had told Ginny that the end of the first trimester might bring some relief - or it might not, but that was still at least a couple of weeks away.

"You need to eat, Ginevra," Rodolphus stated menacingly. "The elves prepared porridge just for you."

In the face of that implicit threat, Ginny picked up her spoon and began to take small bites of the porridge, trying to pick out the slivers of stomach-calming ginger. There had been no penetration since Madam Fawley had confirmed her pregnancy and conducted a stern conversation with the Lestrange brothers about the need for pelvic rest to prevent a miscarriage, but Rodolphus would not hesitate to slap her around if he felt it was warranted.

The swooping arrival of the _Prophet's_ delivery owl gave her a brief respite in her eating, allowing her stomach to calm.

"Look at this, Rabby!" Rodolphus exclaimed, passing the front page to his brother. "Carrow's been murdered!"

Rabastan read the article swiftly and began chuckling. "Strangled by a Devil's Snare and mutilated after death? I never would have thought his little blonde tart had it in her."

"No matter how much dick was stuck in her," Rodolphus laughed coarsely. "And Zacharias Smith helped? I seriously underestimated that little prick."

"Ah, that's why they say you should never rile a Hufflepuff. They're fierce in defending their own," Rabastan said wisely.

"I expect we'll be having a badger hunt later on today," Rodolphus said, tucking into his scrambled eggs.

Rabastan grinned at the prospect, his good mood emboldening Ginny. "May I see the newspaper?" she asked. "I'd like to read about what happened to the headmaster."

"Of course, darling." He passed her the _Daily Prophet_. "Be careful the sordid details don't make you sick."

Ginny suppressed an unladylike snort. She was doubtful that anything terrible that had befallen Amycus Carrow would make her feel ill, unless it was from laughing too hard.

After reading the article, she took a thoughtful bite of porridge, followed by another, staring down at her bowl. Ginny understood all too well why Hannah Abbott might have snapped and carved Carrow up like a Christmas goose. However, her slave brand - like Ginny's wedding band - would have kept her from harming her master so long as he was alive. But she could not picture Zacharias Smith lifting a finger to help Hannah, let alone committing murder for her. He was too selfish and too cowardly, no matter what the _Daily Prophet_ claimed he had done for love of his fellow Hufflepuff. Carrow's death by plant had Neville Longbottom's green thumbprints all over it - not that Ginny would be sharing her suspicions with anyone, except perhaps her bathroom mirror.

Tagging Smith as the killer was not the courageous, foolhardy act of a lion, though - it reeked of Slytherin slyness. She mentally reviewed the list of seventh-year snakes at Hogwarts, but none made sense as Hannah and Neville's accomplice: Goyle was too thick, Malfoy was too cold, and Zabini was too self-absorbed. Among the sixth years, she only knew of Harper - who was an idiot - and Malcolm Baddock, whose sympathies would lie with Carrow.

Ginny thought there _was_ a Gryffindor at Hogwarts who could have masterminded Carrow's death. Previously, Hermione had sent a headmistress to be molested by the centaur herd, permanently disfigured a traitor to Dumbledore's army, held a reporter hostage in a jam jar, and set a teacher on fire - the last when she was only an ickle firstie. Given that track record and Hermione's ruthless intelligence, framing a toe rag like Smith for murder would be child's play for her - _if_ Malfoy approved.

Not for the first time, Ginny lamented the loss of her D.A. Galleon. Without it, she had no way of knowing what was really going on, either at Hogwarts or with the resistance more broadly. The _Prophet_ was a rag, and it wasn't likely that Rodolphus and Rabastan would let her listen to _Potterwatch_. But she had left her charmed coin behind at the Burrow in her hurry to get to Hogwarts and fight.

"May I be excused?" she asked, having no desire to hear the Lestrange brothers expound on their plans for Hannah when they caught her and Smith. "I'm feeling tired."

Rabastan waved a negligent hand. "Go and have a lie down, then."

"Lazy cow," Rodolphus muttered, as Ginny rose from her seat. "It's not even ten in the morning."

His younger brother gave an indulgent smile, patting Ginny's bottom as she passed his chair like she was a favorite dog. "It's hard work, growing my son. It's good that Ginevra's so careful."

Ginny hid her disgusted expression behind a yawn as she left the dining room. She was careful only because she was sure she was carrying Harry's baby, not the byproduct of repeated rape by the Lestrange brothers.

Rabastan might be vile, but he was right about one thing: pregnancy was hard work. Ginny felt lightheaded as she climbed the stairs, pausing on the landing to recover her equilibrium. Even so, as she approached the top, she lost her balance. For a sickening moment, she was certain she was going to cartwheel backwards down the steps, until _something_ cold and horrid brushed against her back. Ginny recoiled out of instinct, falling forward hard onto her knees. They would be bruised, but she and the baby otherwise were unharmed.

"Thank you," she whispered to the ghost or house-elf or whatever it was that had just saved her from a nasty tumble or worse.

Uncanny greeted her words. With a nervous glance down the empty staircase and the equally empty hallway, Ginny scampered to the dubious shelter of her bedroom and en suite bath.

"Bellatrix, is the house haunted?" she demanded of the Horcrux trapped in the mirror.

"I really wish you wouldn't call me that," the mirror complained. "I always went by Trixie. Ask Cissy - she'll tell you. It was Rodolpus who always insisted on calling me Bella or by my full name, even though he knew I liked it about as much as you like being called Ginevra."

"Is the house haunted?" Ginny repeated.

"Not that I know of," Trixie answered. "The Lestranges tend not to linger after death."

"The devil probably can't wait to have them join him in Hell," Ginny muttered.

Trixie laughed, darkly. "I'm sure. I only wish I weren't stuck here."

"Well, that's what you get for murdering your mother-in-law and using her death to split your soul," Ginny said, without an iota of sympathy for the mirror.

"You should be thanking me for killing Rochelle and saving you the trouble," Trixie snorted. "That woman was a witch with a 'b' if I've ever met one. Why do you think Roddy and Rabby turned out like they did?"

That was unanswerable, so Ginny did not bother to answer.

"I only wished I had killed those two, as well," Trixie added, unrepentant.

"Well, why didn't you?" Ginny asked.

"I couldn't," the mirror sighed with real regret. "While I was alive, I wore the same wedding band that you wear now. It kept me from harming my husband or any member of the Lestrange family. I was only able to murder Rochelle because she had remarried, so the magic saw her as a Bulstrode."

"Pity," Ginny said flippantly. "You could have possessed a couple more trinkets."

"I would never make more than one Horcrux!" Trixie exclaimed, shocked and appalled. "Splitting your soul more than once will drive you mad!"

"Trust me, you were barking at the end," Ginny said dryly.

"You spend a few more years being tortured by your husband and brother-in-law and let's see how sane you are! I made a Horcrux so I could save a part of myself, but I wouldn't be so stupid as to make a second one," Trixie insisted.

"Your master made more than one," Ginny informed her. She knew now that Tom's diary had been a Horcrux, and he had to have others - otherwise, he would be dead. And Harry, Ron and Hermione would not have spent the past year on an ultimately futile treasure hunt.

"He's not _my_ master," Trixie said haughtily. "I don't know what Bellatrix was thinking, to join up with that half-blooded sociopath."

"You are the same person," Ginny noted.

". . . unless she was trying to get out from under Rodolphus's thumb. That might make sense," the mirror mused, as though Ginny had not spoken. "You know, I would help you against both the Lestrange brothers and the Dark Lord, if only you'd help free me."

"So you've said. Repeatedly," Ginny replied with patent skepticism. Trixie had been nagging her to perform some foul ritual to allow her to regain a body, but Ginny was having none of it.

"I really, truly am on your side," Trixie said, as persuasive as Tom's diary had ever been.

Ginny, however, was no longer a naïve little girl. "Prove it. You're no longer wearing the Lestrange wedding band - I am. Kill one of them for me and we'll talk about getting you a body."

The mirror fell silent, for so long that Ginny sighed and prepared to leave for the bedroom. Maybe she would lie down and take a nap.

"Wait!" Trixie said, as she turned to go. "I have an idea, but you'll need to cut yourself."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "You want me to give you my blood? How stupid do you think I am?"

"I don't think you're stupid at all. In fact, I think you're rather clever," the mirror flattered. "Don't give your blood to me - just smear it down your legs and get dear, sweet Rodolphus in here."

"I think I know what you're planning, and it just may work," Ginny admitted with grudging admiration.

"If it doesn't work, he's going to destroy me," Trixie warned.

Ginny shrugged. "I can live without a Horcrux in my life." Though, truthfully, she would miss the mirror's unvarnished opinions and strategic advice. " _Sanguinem illusio_!"

Red blossomed across Ginny's jade-green skirts, with more puddling at her feet. A coppery tang pervaded the air. "It's fake blood," she explained. "My friend Luna came up with the spell - it's one everyone outside of Slytherin needed to learn when the Carrows were running Hogwarts."

"Clever, as I said," Trixie approved. "Now scream for a house-elf."

After collapsing artistically against the tub, Ginny did so. One of the Lestrange elves popped in immediately, its bulbous eyes widening even further when it saw her. "Mistress is being injured!" it squeaked in distress.

"Quick, get your master!" Ginny gasped. "And tell Rabastan to call a Healer!"

Within moments of the elf popping out of sight, she could hear a single pair of boots pounding up the stairs and down the hallway. Rodolphus burst into the bathroom, his eyes widening at the sight of Ginny collapsed in what appeared to be a pool of her own blood, bleeding from between her legs. "Oh, Salazar!"

"She did it!" Ginny cried dramatically, pointing to the mirror.

She did not have to feign a shudder at the evil cackle the mirror admitted - it sounded exactly like Bellatrix at the Department of Mysteries and Hogwarts.

Rodolphus, too, recognized that laugh. "Bella? You're dead, you bitch!" he shouted.

The mirror darkened, and a woman's face appeared inside the glass. Bellatrix Lestrange's reflection - looking younger and saner than Ginny had ever seen her in life - smirked at her husband. "Not quite, Roddy dear. I left a bit of myself behind. Enough to ensure you'll never get an heir out of your little ginger wife," she gloated. "I've killed your brat in the womb, and she'll be next!"

Even though she knew her baby was safe, and Trixie had no power to hurt her, Ginny shivered at the words.

"No, you'll be next, you fucking hag!" Rodolphus swore at the mirror, raising his wand. " _Avada Kedavra_!"

A jet of green light shot out and reflected off the mirror's silvery surface, hitting him in the forehead. He collapsed in a heap next to Ginny, his eyes blank.

Trixie gave a satisfied laugh. "Well, that worked like a charm! Now, let's talk about getting me a body . . . ."

 **A/N: thanks as always for the lovely and supportive reviews. Harry's in the same state Voldemort was between Halloween 1981 and his possession of Professor Quirrell. To paraphrase GoF, he's been ripped from his body and is less than the meanest ghost - but he's alive. More to come on that next chapter, with Theo and Luna. Special thanks to Lady Evora, who left review 1200, as well as .948 and Tom Riddle Minor - flattery will get you everywhere!**


	49. Theo's Night in the Forest

**_June 25, 1998 - continued_**

"Are you sure it's safe to be here?" Theo asked, uneasily glancing around the clearing in the shadow-shrouded Forbidden Forest. The last time he had been in the forest, an acromantula had mauled his arm. There were any number of hostile creatures living here, not to mention the Death Eaters and their sympathizers at Hogwarts.

"It's as safe as anywhere else in wizarding Britain," Luna promised him, although that was not much of a reassurance. "Now that Carrow's dead, Draco is the senior Death Eater in the castle. Hermione's promised me she'll keep him occupied all night."

"Ugh," Ron grimaced. "Don't make me lose my dinner."

"It might be helpful if you did, Ronald." Luna regarded the redhead thoughtfully from behind her oversized purple goggles. She had informed Theo that they were called Specterscopes, and helped her spot otherwise shy and elusive spirits. "Ghosts are attracted to strong food smells, since their taste buds are incorporeal."

As she spoke, she began removing shrunken parcels from her bag and resizing them, setting out a macabre picnic on the forest floor. Theo suppressed the urge to retch at the stench of rotten meat and overripe fruits and vegetables. He was skeptical that ghosts would be lured by vomit, whether Weasley's or his own.

Ron glared at her. "How can you be so calm . . . so _Luna_ about what the Ferret's doing to Hermione?"

"From her messages, I believe Hermione is well," she replied vaguely.

"Merlin's saggy bollocks, Luna! Malfoy is raping her and doing Godric knows what else," Weasley cried dramatically. "You heard from Dean what kind of shape Hannah was in when she got to Belfast."

"I spent the last year at Hogwarts with both of them, and Draco Malfoy isn't Amycus Carrow," Luna said with soft finality.

Theo agreed. He thought that Draco probably would rape a girl if the Dark Lord ordered him to, but he would get it over with as quickly as possible. That's what Theo would have done, too, though thankfully that had never been required of him - just torture and murder. If Granger was keeping Draco busy all night, then whatever they were doing was consensual.

"Now, Hermione said she saw Harry on the Marauder's Map right around here, just last night." Luna looked around expectantly, as though Potter might pop out from behind a tree.

"Are you sure this isn't a trap?" Theo asked, ready to grab Luna and her wand to Apparate them both away if necessary. He was worried this risky excursion to the Forbidden Forest, unsanctioned by the Order, was a fool's errand.

"I'm reasonably confident," Luna said serenely. "Hermione always has been reliable in the past. It also makes sense that Harry would be haunting Hogwarts as a ghost if he didn't pass through the Veil."

She pulled two final items from her bag - a Ouija board and planchette - before sinking to the mossy ground, mercifully upwind from the rotted food. "Now we wait for the ghosts to come to us," she explained in her ethereal voice.

Theo sat next to her, a carefully calibrated distance between them, as he did not wish to seem forward. Weasley plopped down on her other side, clearly unconcerned with the proprieties.

"I'm hungry," the ginger whined. "Did you bring anything fit for living people to eat, Luna?"

She reached back into her bag and pulled out a packet of Pepper Imps. The three sat in a semi-companionable silence for several minutes as candy-induced smoke puffed from their mouths and noses.

"Ho, there!" the Fat Friar hailed them.

"Good evening, Brother." Luna rose to her feet and gave the monk a curtsy. "Please, help yourself to food and drink."

"Don't mind if I do," he said, eyeing the picnic greedily. He took a flagon from his belt and filled it to the brim with wine that had soured to almost-vinegar. After taking a hearty swig, the Hufflepuff ghost burped happily. "What a pleasant change to see students from three different houses enjoying one another's company, even if none of you are my own badgers."

"If you want a student from your old House, one is mouldering over yonder," the Bloody Baron announced in his sinister way, gliding into the clearing. "Zacharias Smith."

The Fat Friar clasped his hands in distress. "Ah, poor Smith. I should go and see to him, even if it is too late for last rites. You know what Helga did - she took in and cared for not only the loyal and the true, but all the rest, too. I can do no less." He tripped out of the clearing, still looking cheerful despite his morbid errand.

"Go with the friar," the Bloody Baron ordered. Luna and Ron obediently followed the Hufflepuff ghost, with Theo forming the rear guard.

"Mister Nott."

"Good evening, sir," Theo acknowledged the Slytherin ghost with utmost respect.

"What brings you here?" questioned the Bloody Baron as they walked.

"We want to find and speak with the ghost of Harry Potter. We have information that he is haunting Hogwarts," answered Theo.

"Your information is doubly flawed, mortal," the Bloody Baron intoned. "Harry Potter is no ghost. In some ways, he is less than the least of us, for he possesses no body or form of his own, not even a ghostly one. But he is not tied to Hogwarts as his place of death, as am I, because he is not yet dead. He left last night, and I know not where he went."

"Potter's alive?" Theo stopped and gaped at the ghost.

The Bloody Baron shrugged. "In a manner of speaking. His spirit lives on, even without a body to house it. But he is very vulnerable, lacking any means to defend himself, physically or magically, and must rely on the life force of others."

"What do you mean?" Theo asked. He began walking again, following the gleam of Luna's silvery-blonde hair through the trees.

The Bloody Baron fell in step beside him. "I mean that since the Final Battle, Harry Potter has survived in spirit form and by possessing small creatures of the forest, mostly snakes, sometimes birds."

"That's awful," Theo murmured, feeling more than a bit of sympathy for Potter. He always had resented the favoritism all of the professors except Snape had shown to the Gryffindor, but no one deserved that.

"That is his fate, as was prophesied before his birth," the Bloody Baron stated implacably. "'Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives . . . .' The Dark Lord survives, so Potter cannot fully live. And Harry Potter survives, so the Dark Lord is not wholly alive."

"'Neither can live while the other survives,'" Theo repeated, thoughtfully. "Is that what you meant when you said Potter is not yet dead? Is he dying? Is the Dark Lord dying?"

"All mortals die a bit every day they live, young Nott. Even your precious Dark Lord, for all of his desperate gambits to avoid death. But I cannot predict when or how any mortal's life will come to an end. Perhaps the centaurs may know, if you dare to ask them," the Baron offered.

"He's not my Dark Lord, sir," Theo protested automatically. "Is there any reason why I should not ask the centaurs?" He knew they were a proud race, and easily offended.

"The centaurs will not parlay with servants of the Dark One," warned the Bloody Baron. "Look yonder at young Smith's mortal remains if you wish to know how they treat those who bear the Dark Mark."

Against his better judgement, Theo looked. He swallowed hard at the sight of the corpse, with three arrows protruding from Smith's concave chest.

"Maybe the centaurs will speak with Luna," he suggested hopefully, his Slytherin self-preservation coming to the forefront. "Or Weasley." The more he thought about it, the better that second idea seemed. And if the ginger mortally offended the centaurs, so much the better.

The Bloody Baron looked at him in disgust. "I expect cunning and slyness from those of my House, but not cravenness. Would you truly send a witch you cared for to the centaur herd? I never would have so risked my Helena, even though the jade played me false. And no Slytherin should ever entrust such an important task to a blunt tool of Godric's!"

"You're right," Theo admitted, ashamed. "Perhaps the centaurs will not be so hostile towards me since my Dark Mark is mostly gone."

"Or perhaps we will not be so hostile since we know that your allegiances have changed, young Nott," said a familiar centaur with palomino hindquarters and long, pale blond hair like that of the late Lucius Malfoy. "Not all who bear the Dark Mark are evil, and not all those who are evil bear the Dark Mark."

"Professor Firenze!" Theo exclaimed at the sight of the former Divination professor. "Will you tell me when the Dark Lord will die?" he asked with a mix of doubt and hope. Even though he had never been one of Firenze's students, he knew the centaurs jealously guarded the information they gleaned from the night sky.

"I shall not," Firenze bluntly refused. He looked over Theo's head to the inky sky. "Mars is bright tonight, but I can see Venus as well."

Theo looked up to where Firenze was pointing. After years of Astronomy class, he could recognize all of the planets and major constellations visible in the Scottish sky. "Polaris seems bright, too," he ventured.

"Ah, Polaris in the Ursa Minor constellation," Firenze said with satisfaction. "The star that Muggles use to find true north. Do you know that thousands of years ago, the North Star was Thuban, part of Draco? Things that are seemingly fixed may shift over time."

"Indeed," Theo said, striving to follow. "So the Dark One will not be in power forever?"

Firenze waved a dismissive hand. "His fate has already been foretold by a human seer. _I_ shall not tell you when the Dark Lord will be vanquished."

"But he will be?" Theo asked eagerly.

Firenze stared at him, his blue eyes showing pity, presumably for his lack of comprehension. "Death vanquishes all of us in the end, Theodore Nott."

 **A/N: this got several more reviews than usual last chapter, so thanks to all who reviewed for getting this past 1250 reviews. Hope this chapter clears up some questions about Harry's fate. Special mention to paffrin, for the willingness to be open-minded despite her head canon re: Bellatrix, and to craaazyaboutMalfoy - keep on cackling, my friend!**


	50. Percy the Brother-in-Law

**_June 26, 1998_**

Percy entered the lift at the Ministry of Magic with a spring in his step. It was Friday morning - the best day of the work week _and_ he had dinner plans with Audrey that night as something more than friends.

His excellent mood vanished as soon as he entered the reception area for the Minister's suite and a maroon-robed Auror blocked the path to his office. "Special Assistant Weasley? You're needed in the holding cells," the man greeted him.

"Er, thank you, Auror- " Percy replied, trying to remember the man's name.

"Dawlish. John Dawlish," the Auror supplied in an officious way as he led them back in the direction of the lifts.

"Oh, of course," Percy said. Dawlish was not a Death Eater, merely an unimaginative Auror who followed orders to the best of his ability without thinking them through. The Auror's humiliating defeat by an octogenarian witch and subsequent hospitalization at St. Mungo's had been the talk of the Ministry. "I'm glad you've recovered from your altercation with Madam Longbottom."

Dawlish flushed. "She was rather spry for an old lady," he said stiffly.

Too late, Percy realized he might have offended him. Social graces were not his forte. "Oh, yes, of course," he hurriedly agreed. "They're quite crafty once they reach that age."

As the lift descended to the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, the Auror's use of the past tense registered with Percy. "Wait - you said she _was_ a spry old lady. Is she dead?" If Voldemort was now killing off elderly, pure-blooded matriarchs, then things were even worse than Percy feared.

"No, her grandson joining the Death Eaters saved her. She's just under house arrest," Dawlish reported as the lift arrived with a bump. "Though I'm not so sure how spry she is now, after being tortured."

"Of course," Percy said in a flat voice. "So, who have you captured? Another Muggleborn claiming to have magical ancestry?"

He hoped that was all it was, and that none of his surviving brothers had been caught. All of them were wanted criminals and blood traitors, according to the new regime.

"It's your sister," Dawlish said with a nasty smile as they exited the lift and made a left, heading away from the courtrooms and towards the holding cells. "We brought her in on suspicion of murdering her husband."

Percy stopped dead and gaped at him. "Ginny?" he said stupidly, since he had only the one sister.

"Yes, these morons arrested Ginevra last night." Rabastan Lestrange stepped in front of them, his eyes bloodshot and face haggard. "You need to help me get her out of here, Weasley."

"Of course," Percy nodded.

Lestrange rounded on the Auror. "This is an outrage, putting a pregnant, pureblood witch near Dementors! She's carrying the Lestrange heir!"

"We're not in the habit of releasing murderesses, just because they're members of the Sacred Twenty-Eight or pregnant," Dawlish said with an obstinate set to his jaw.

"Well, I suggest you rethink that. I'll have your head if she miscarries, and I mean that literally." Just in case the Auror misunderstood, Rabastan rolled up his sleeve and brandished his Dark Mark in the other wizard's face.

"Do you think I'm impressed by that?" Dawlish growled. "Threatening an Auror, Lestrange?"

Percy interrupted the chest-puffing with a dry cough. "Auror Dawlish, what is the evidence against my sister?"

"The evidence is that Rodolphus died from the Killing Curse and it's impossible to _Avada_ yourself," Dawlish stated.

"That's all?" Percy asked.

"No, that's not all," the Auror bristled. "Rodolphus and Ginevra were having a row in her bathroom. Rabastan heard shouting and screaming, and a house-elf who popped in on them was gibbering about blood. She must have gotten ahold of her husband's wand and killed him after he hit her - no one else was there."

"She couldn't. Her wedding band prevents her from harming any member of the Lestrange family," Rabastan protested.

"So you say," the Auror scoffed. "But you seem unusually protective of your sister-in-law and not all that concerned about your brother's death. Perhaps that's a motive right there?"

"What does Ginny say?" Percy asked, practical-minded as always.

"Some faradiddle about Lestrange trying kill her but the spell backlashing against him," Dawlish reported with patent skepticism.

"He was under a magical oath not to use Unforgivables against her," Percy advised. "It's quite possible his own spell turned against him if he attempted to break that oath."

"Unforgivables against his own wife?" Dawlish echoed, appalled. "I don't believe you, Weasley. Nice try, but I think you made that up to protect your sister."

"It's true!" Rabastan shouted. "You can ask Charlus Nott - he was there!"

"Or maybe I'll ask Ginevra, under Veritaserum," Dawlish said, a sly look on his face.

"Is it safe? For the baby?" Rabastan asked with an expression of real concern. Percy thought it was ill-suited to his face.

"It's safe enough, but since she's a minor, the Ministry needs her guardian to consent. Ordinarily, that would be her husband, but since he's dead . . . . That's why Weasley's here."

"Yes, I'll sign whatever paperwork is necessary," Percy agreed immediately. Anything was better than having Ginny exposed to Dementors, and he was confident the truth would exonerate her. "But as she is a minor, I will need to be there when she's questioned."

"Me, too," Rabastan chimed in.

Dawlish gave an indifferent shrug. "Suit yourselves. Follow me." He led them back to the holding cells, where two Dementors were prowling the corridor. The Auror raised his wand and summoned his Patronus - a bulldog - to banish them as Percy shook helplessly, seeing his father's death flash before his eyes.

Ginny was huddled on the floor in the far corner of the cell, crying and whispering to herself. "Harry . . . the baby . . . Tom . . . Trixie . . . ."

Dawlish entered her cell to administer the Veritaserum. "Open up, witch," he ordered gruffly, a dropper with the clear potion in hand.

Ginny cringed against the stone wall. "No, no! I'll bite you!" she threatened, her eyes darting frantically.

The Auror took advantage of her panicked protest to squirt the Veritaserum into her mouth. Almost immediately, Ginny's face went slack as the truth serum took effect.

"Did you kill Rodolphus Lestrange?" Dawlish asked, not mincing words.

"No," Ginny said immediately.

"Who killed your husband?" he asked.

"Not my husband, not anymore," Ginny corrected.

"Who killed Rodolphus Lestrange, then?" Dawlish rephrased, sounding frustrated.

"Stupid bugger killed himself," she slurred. "Tried to _Avada_ his wife in the mirror and got himself instead. Deserved it, too . . . glad he's dead."

Percy stepped forward, shaking off the lingering effects of the Dementors stationed outside the holding cells. "You've gotten the answers you needed, Auror Dawlish. There's no reason to continue holding my sister."

"No, I suppose not," Dawlish conceded, deflated. "Let's head back up to the Auror Department. I'll fill out the necessary paperwork and return Madam Lestrange's wand."

"Don't call me that," Ginny hissed. Some color was returning to her face as she recovered from exposure to the Dementors, but she had to take Percy's hand - reluctantly - to stand up from the cement floor of the cell. He tried not to feel hurt when when she released it almost immediately, wiping it on her robes for good measure.

"You're not married anymore. Once you have your wand, we can go to my flat. I'll make you a mug of hot chocolate," he offered in a soft voice as the walked towards the lifts, following Dawlish and Rabastan. That had been their dad's cure for all ills when they were growing up.

"Hot chocolate?" his sister said venomously. "I've been through hell and back, and the best you can offer me is a _fucking_ mug of hot chocolate?"

"Dad always said - " Percy began.

"You killed him. You don't get to quote him," Ginny said in a flat voice. "Trust me, brother dear, when I say that hot chocolate doesn't fix everything."

Percy swallowed hard, remembering that his parents' response to Ginny's possession by a Horcrux at age twelve had been hot chocolate and a scolding. "I'm sorry, Gin."

"I would appreciate it if you could put me up for a few days," she said grudgingly.

"You're more than welcome." Percy spoke with sincerity. "To whatever you need, for as long as you want."

Rabastan turned his head fractionally in their direction, the only warning they had.

" _Confundus_ ," the surviving Lestrange brother said, jabbing his wand against Auror Dawlish's temple. Quick as a viper, he rounded on Percy.

"No!" Ginny screamed, as the jet of red light streaked from Rabastan's wand towards her brother.

Percy tried to duck. _Too late_ , was his last thought, before unconsciousness took him.

He came to in a Ministry supply closet hours later, according to his watch. "Oh, bugger me," he swore, suffering from a massive headache and even larger sense of having failed his family - again.

Adding insult to injury, when he made his way back to his office, Lestrange had sent him an owl - and the damned bird had shat all over his desk while waiting.

"Shoo!" Percy ordered the evil avian, after removing the rolled-up parchment it clutched in its talons. "Don't expect a treat for your message."

After making sure to ruffle all of the paperwork it had soiled, the owl hooted and flew off, clearly in a sour mood. "That makes the two of us," Percy muttered.

After Scourgifying his desk and what could be salvaged of his in-box, Percy opened the scroll of parchment with greatest reluctance, knowing what it would say.

A sense of glee practically radiated off of Rabastan's spiky letters, as though imbued into the ink:

 _Dearest Brother-in-Law,_

 _So sorry you missed the wedding! It was only a registry office affair, if that's any consolation. With the bride so recently widowed, anything more would have been gauche. Your safe conduct holds, so you may toast to my happiness with your lovely sister and wish us a long and fruitful marriage on your next visit._

 _Rabastan_

Percy made a disgusted noise and crumpled the parchment. "Smarmy bastard," he muttered. "What about Ginny's happiness? And the marriage might be fruitful already, but it won't be long if I have any say."

 **A/N: Reviews were down quite a bit last chapter, which I hope is due to one of website's periodic tantrums and not an indication that the quality of the last chapter wasn't up to par or that Theo's storyline is less than gripping. (You could tell me if you thought so - really. I write as a hobby, but also to improve as a writer, so I do welcome constructive criticism.)**

 **What that means is the reviews that did come in last chapter are all the more special to me - many, many thanks to each and everyone of you who left a comment! EggDupont, keep that hope alive. MrsMorgan813 - I totally agree, and the centaurs' vagueness makes them so fun to write - and keeps my options open.**


	51. Hermione and Her Pet Snake

**_June 30, 1998_**

On a grassy hillock near the shore of the Black Lake, Hermione leaned back into Malfoy's chest, watching fluffy white clouds chase across a bright blue sky. It was the type of sunny afternoon that came around like clockwork with the end of the school year, an afternoon that made her wish she could stay at Hogwarts just a little bit longer. This year, the wish was particularly acute. Not only was her schooling finished, but she would be accompanying Draco to his family's manor, a place where she had been tortured and that Voldemort had commandeered as his headquarters.

She shivered despite the warm sunshine. In response, the warm arm around her shoulders tightened. "Alright there, Granger?" he asked in her ear.

"I just can't believe exams are over," Hermione said, turning around to face him.

"Not even you would be upset about the end of exams," Malfoy observed, grey eyes shrewd. But he did not press for what was really troubling her, probably because he knew it. Instead, he stole a quick kiss, indifferent to their audience.

"My head hurts from thinking," Goyle groaned. "I think I failed everything."

"Not after Hermione's tutoring, you didn't," Neville reassured him. "Trust me - her methods work. She's been helping my marks since I was a firstie."

"I can't believe we still had to take NEWTs, with Carrow dead and everything," Blaise groused.

"Why not? We still took exams at the end of last year after Dumbledore died, and he was much more of a loss than Carrow," Hermione noted. Too late, she felt Draco tense up behind her. He hated reminders of what he had done - and failed to do - up on the Astronomy Tower. She wondered how things would have been different if he had taken Dumbledore's offer of sanctuary. Or killed the old man ...

"And we took OWLs at the end of fifth year, even after _someone_ tricked our acting headmistress into the Forbidden Forest, so she could experience a gang bang with the centaur herd," Malfoy snarked, nipping her neck.

Hermione whirled around to face him. Not surprisingly, he was smirking at her. "Umbridge deserved it," she hissed.

"You two are so well-matched," Blaise laughed.

"I don't know what you mean," Hermione said stiffly.

Blaise grinned at both of them "Please, Granger. You're too intelligent to play stupid with me. You and Drake are perfect for each other. Who would've thought the Dark Lord could play matchmaker?"

"Fuck off, Zabini," Draco suggested. "He wasn't matchmaking. The Dark Lord gave her to me as a prize, a pet." His mouth twisted at the last few words, as though they tasted sour in his mouth.

"Our relationship, such as it is, ends when the war ends," he concluded.

Hermione shrugged his arm off her shoulders, feeling inexplicably hurt. She was only sleeping with Malfoy on a regular basis, serving as his co-conspirator, as well as his confidante and emotional support when the expectations that came with being a Death Eater got to be too much - but of course he would want nothing to do with a Muggleborn like her once the war ended and pureblood witches like Pansy Parkinson and the Greengrass sisters decided to come back to wizarding Britain.

"I agree," she said coolly, proud that her voice showed so little of her feelings. "Our relationship ends when the war ends," she echoed.

Blaise looked from her to Draco. "Bollocks," he said. "You two can name your firstborn child after me instead of some supernova. In the meantime, what about some Firewhisky to celebrate the end of our Hogwarts education?"

"I've got some in my trunk," Draco offered. "It's the good stuff."

"Of course it is," Hermione rolled her eyes. Nothing but the best would do for her spoilt Slytherin prince.

"Well, let's go and fetch it," Blaise suggested, smacking his lips in exaggerated anticipation.

Draco gently dislodged Hermione from his lap and stood up. "Goyle, Longbottom - stay here with Granger. We'll be right back."

The two larger boys looked up from their game of Exploding Snap and nodded, Goyle with all seriousness and Neville with a shrug at Hermione's annoyed huff. Draco's insistence that she always have a guard with her was a constant irritation. She also knew that his paranoia about her safety - and maintaining appearances that she was a prisoner- would only get worse once they were residing at Malfoy Manor.

She lay on her back in the grass, idly finding shapes in the clouds. The warm sun encouraged her to doze off, especially with the late nights she had put in recently, cramming for NEWTs and engaging in various extracurricular activities with Malfoy. She was very nearly asleep when a nudge on her hand roused her.

"What is it?" she asked sleepily, expecting to see Draco's grey eyes meeting hers, a glass of Firewhiskey in hand, or perhaps Neville with a question.

No one was in her line of sight. Draco and Blaise had not returned, and Goyle and Neville were occupied with their explosive card game several feet away, well out of touching distance.

She felt another nudge and looked down at her hand, choking back a startled scream at the snake. From its distinctive tan and brown pattern, she knew it was an adder - Scotland's only native snake, and a venomous one at that. Slowly, Hermione reached for the wand in her skirt pocket, stopping as the snake hissed and stared at her with green eyes, bright like emeralds.

"Harry?" she whispered. In a decidedly human movement, the snake dipped its head - _his_ head - up and down in a nodding motion.

Hermione reached out a shaking hand to stroke the top of his head. "Luna told you were often a snake, but I forgot when you startled me." She had nearly cursed her best friend.

The snake - _Harry_ \- leaned into her touch, confirming that it was he. Adders were shy snakes, and ordinarily struck when humans tried to handle them.

"Hermione, what are you doing?" Neville asked, his voice low and scared.

"Be careful," Goyle rumbled a warning, eyes wide as he reached for his wand. "It's poisonous!"

"It's Harry!" Hermione said urgently, still petting the little snake. "Look at his eyes!"

"Blimey!" Neville said, crouching down to confirm the snake's eyes were emerald green.

"Can he talk?" Goyle asked.

Harry raised his head and hissed something at him, shaking his head at the Slytherin's stupidity.

"Just Parseltongue," Hermione said shakily, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry. "I suppose we'll have to make do with yes or no questions."

"Uh, that's not what I meant," Goyle said, his face pink with embarrassment. "Can you give him letters or something so he can spell, to make sure it's Potter? It could be someone's familiar."

She gave him a considering look before conjuring a brightly colored child's alphabet board. "That's very clever, Greg. On both counts."

If anything, he blushed more deeply. "Er, thanks."

"Can you make out the letters?" she asked Harry, concerned he would be unable to see without his glasses. The snake nodded, and Hermione asked her first question. "What form does your Patronus take?"

"S-T-A-G." Harry flicked out his forked tongue, touching each of the letters.

Goyle coughed to get her attention. "A lot of Death Eaters know that. Can you ask it something else?"

The snake hissed in annoyance, but Hermione thought it was a fair point. "What does your aunt call your cousin?"

The snake's eyes gleamed in what might have been amusement. Then it spelled out the correct answer: "D-U-D-D-I-E-K-I-N-S."

"It really is Harry," Hermione confirmed. "No Death Eater would know that."

"What in Merlin's name are you doing, Granger?" Malfoy drawled, as two pairs of well-shined shoes appeared in Hermione's peripheral vision.

Zabini snickered. "I think he's jealous. Drake only wants his pet snake sharing your bed."

"It's Harry," Hermione explained. "He's in snake form right now. We're trying to communicate with him."

"That's Potter? And I thought being a ferret was bad!" Draco sounded gleefully amused rather than sympathetic. Hermione was not surprised when Harry hissed at him and opened his mouth to show his fangs.

"Boys," Hermione muttered in disgust.

"Oh, you know I'm very much a man," Draco smirked, pulling her to her feet and flush against him.

This time, Harry struck at the blond wizard's ankle.

" _Stupefy_!" With Blaise's quick wand work, the snake fell to the ground, limp and unmoving. "You owe me a life debt, Drake!" he crowed.

"Not quite, wanker." Draco pulled up his trousers, revealing dragonhide boots. "Potty's little chompers couldn't have got through this."

"Neville, could you hold Harry, please?" Hermione requested through gritted teeth. At the moment, it was a toss-up as to whether she was more annoyed with Harry or Draco.

"Hold on, Hermione. Let me get my gloves," Neville said, rummaging in his school bag. "Good thing Herbology was my last exam." He pulled on the dragonhide gloves, which extended up to his elbow, then picked up the unconscious snake. "Okay, bring him around."

" _Reenervate_!"

The gloves were a sensible precaution, since Harry unthinkingly struck at the hands that held him, his adder's fangs glancing harmlessly off the tough dragon leather.

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione scolded. "Stop that! You need to control your temper. We're just trying to help you!"

Like a cat, Harry butted his head against Neville's hand in a wordless apology.

"There will be no more attempts at biting, do you understand me?" she demanded. "Including other snakes."

Harry looked in Malfoy's direction and hissed in protest.

"Draco is not your enemy - he's certainly not mine," Hermione said definitively. She reached behind her, grabbing Malfoy's hand to make her point.

The little snake hissed again in displeasure, but nodded.

"Now we need to figure out what to do with you, how to get you back into a human body," she mused.

"There are certain rituals," Draco said, squeezing her hand, "but they are Dark."

"I don't know if we have much choice," Hermione said unhappily. "Harry, what do you remember about the spell Wormtail used in the graveyard?"

Harry thrashed helplessly in Neville's hands.

"Put him down, Nev, so he can spell it out," Hermione suggested.

"B-O-N-E - " Harry began, painstakingly.

When he was done, Hermione bit her lip in thought. "Bone of the father, flesh of the servant, blood of an enemy," she summarized. "The ingredients are disgusting, but not that hard to come by. We don't know how to recreate the potion in the cauldron. And we'd need to make you into a homunculus first . . . I need to research this."

Draco's hand on her wrist stayed her from dashing off to the library. "Hold on, Granger. I know your knickers are damp at the thought of one last romp in the library with me, but we need to figure out what to do with Potty the Snake first. Who's going to take him when we leave Hogwarts tomorrow?"

Harry hissed in protest. Not being a Parselmouth, Hermione could not tell whether he objected to the nickname or Malfoy's proposition to her. At this point, she and Draco had defiled most of the tables in the restricted section, and she had gotten quite familiar with how certain sections of the stacks felt against her back as she was being pounded into them. But Harry couldn't possibly know that.

"He'll stay with me, of course. He's my best friend," she said.

Malfoy shook his head, tightening his grip on her wrist to capture her full attention. "Not possible. We're not taking a snake who reeks of magic back to the Manor. The Dark Lord will have Potty bound as his new familiar faster than you can say 'Nagini.' And if he figures out his new pet is Harry Potter, he'll kill us all."

Hermione nodded in reluctant agreement. From the steely look in Draco's grey eyes, she knew he would not be budged on this - and he was right. "What about Neville, then?"

Malfoy shook his blond head. "What's that Muggle saying about putting all your eggs in one basket? There's still quite a bit of scrutiny on the Longbottoms, too. Potty will be safer with Greg or Blaise."

"My mum hates snakes. She'd never let me have a pet," Goyle said wistfully.

"My mum is in Italy, and couldn't care less what kind of wildlife I bring to her London flat, so long as it doesn't soil the rugs. Think you can manage that, Potty?" Blaise asked the snake.

Harry hissed something in Parseltongue that Hermione felt certain was an insult to Zabini or his notorious mother, but he also nodded in reluctant agreement.

"Well, that's settled!" Malfoy clapped his hands. "Blaise, go and find a terrarium or some sort of carrying case for you new pet."

"He'll need food, too," Goyle interjected. "He looks hungry."

"Mice?" Draco suggested, hopefully. "Rats?"

Hermione elbowed him. "Harry will have strips of cooked chicken."

"Nothing but the best for my ickle snaky," Blaise agreed.

"Ickle snaky? Like the one in your pants?" Draco laughed.

"Fuck off, Malfoy," Blaise suggested, still amiably.

"Oh, I intend to," Draco smirked. He turned back to Hermione, an anticipatory smile on his lips. "Ready to do some more research with me in the restricted section, Granger?"

 **A/N: Special thanks this chapter to TequilaMockingbirdWrites (love the pun, not to mention the review), and to LeiaKitten, because I like it that people are thinking enough about the story to point out plot holes. In this case, Luna can see dead people if they are in her presence, but she can't cross the Veil to visit Dumbledore and can't physically get into Hogwarts to visit his portrait, which is just a talking painting in any event. Many thanks to everyone else who reviewed, too!**


	52. Neville's Homecoming

**_July 1, 1998_**

The Hogwarts Express swung around an S-curve at speed as the train approached London's outskirts, causing Neville, who had been dozing, to knock into first Goyle and then Zabini.

"Sorry," he muttered to the Slytherins he was sitting sandwiched between.

"It's alright," Greg said immediately. "Wanna play Exploding Snap now that you're up?"

"I don't recommend that," Blaise advised, with a pointed glance across the carriage where Malfoy was sprawled across the seat, his head pillowed in Hermione's lap as he slept. "Draco was in a right foul mood before, and it's not going to improve if you wake him."

Harry, who was twined around Zabini's neck like an exotic scarf, hissed in agreement. From across the compartment, Hermione lifted her eyes from the book she was engrossed in and nodded.

"Never tickle a sleeping dragon," she paraphrased their school motto.

Zabini smirked at her. "I always knew you were smart, luv. No wonder Drake likes you so much."

Harry hissed at the thought.

"Be careful with Harry, Blaise. He's not himself right now," she warned.

"You think?" Zabini gibed.

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "I mean that his instincts as an adder are warring with his humanity, and you'll get yourself bitten if you aren't more careful."

"You've given me the antivenin you and Drake brewed yesterday, so I'll be fine," he shrugged off her concern with a charming smile.

Neville hoped that the brewing process explained why Hermione and Malfoy both seemed tired and out of sorts. He really did not want to think about other explanations as to why they would have been up half the night.

"Even with the antivenin, you'll still be as sick as a dog," she said in a hectoring tone. "And you'll need to read up on animal possession and caring for snakes in order to properly take care of Harry. He's going to need another host within a couple of weeks, so you'll need to be prepared."

"I'm going to buy the biggest boa constrictor I can find for him. Galleons no object," Blaise proclaimed.

Hermione gave him a quelling look. "A grass snake may be more practical, unless you want people to think you're compensating for something. Here are some notes I've made for you."

Neville and Goyle both snorted, but Zabini remained unruffled, clearly confident he had no shortcomings for which to compensate. He took the proffered sheet of parchment and gave it a cursory glance before shoving it into his pocket. "My, my. You were a busy girl last night, weren't you, Hermione?"

"What in Godric's name are you suggesting, Zabini?" she demanded, cheeks red and clearly spoiling for a fight.

"Me, suggestive?" he replied, dramatically clasping his hands to his heart. "You wound me, witch."

Neville mentally shook his head at Zabini's recklessness. Hermione's mood was not nearly as foul as Malfoy's, but still was far from pleasant. Clearly, something had happened between the two of them and Neville - unlike the idiotic Slytherin with a venomous snake wrapped around his neck - had no desire to get caught in the crossfire.

"It's weird that this is our last train ride," Greg said, by way of distraction. He elbowed Neville in a friendly way. "I've never ridden with Gryffindors before, but it's alright."

"Speak for yourself, Gregory. I've certainly ridden with Gryffindors before," Blaise boasted.

Malfoy cracked his eyes open, showing the merest slit of grey. "Riding Lavender Brown is nothing to brag about, Zabini. She's the village broomstick for all of Hogwarts."

"Plus Fay Dunbar, Lily Moon, and the Gryffindor Patil. Granger's the only lioness in our year who's still holding out on me." Blaise waggled his eyebrows at her. "We've got a little bit of time until we pull into King's Cross. How 'bout it, Hermione? We can find an empty compartment and - "

"Shut it, Zabini." Hermione and Malfoy spoke in unison. To Neville's ears, she sounded mildly annoyed, but the blond wizard sounded murderous.

"I was just taking the piss," the dark Slytherin said, holding his hands up in a placating fashion.

Malfoy glared, but Hermione nodded once and proceeded to ignore him, focusing her attention on the blond now that he was awake.

"We should talk to Neville," Hermione said, an intent look on her face. "And Harry. They deserve to know."

Naturally, Neville's attention was caught by his own name.

"No, Granger! Longbottom's Occlumency isn't there yet, and Potty's a fucking snake!" Malfoy answered, simmering with anger. Clearly, she was poking a sore spot, picking up the threads of an unresolved disagreement.

"You can't use Legilemency against animals, and Neville's come along. When else are you going to tell them?" Hermione asked, her voice rising. "You can't risk anyone overhearing at Malfoy Manor."

"Not now, and that's final," he snapped.

Neville held his breath, waiting. He had seen Hermione row with Harry or Ron or both of them any number of times, and using a tone like that inevitably resulted in hexes or tears.

Instead, Hermione's shoulders slumped in frustrated defeat. "Fine, Draco. It's your funeral."

"Nobody's going to die, Hermione," Zabini said with smooth reassurance.

Malfoy snorted. "I never had pegged you for an optimist, Blaise."

"We should be trying to minimize the body count, though," Hermione said, with a pointed glance at the blond.

"Don't start, Granger." Malfoy stood and offered her a hand. "It's time for you to get changed."

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" she demanded, stubbornly remaining seated.

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "It's Muggle and it's too revealing."

Neville did not think Hermione's denims and short-sleeved shirt were revealing - not that he had been looking - but they were undoubtedly Muggle.

"Come on," Malfoy said impatiently, tugging her to her feet and out of the compartment before she could argue further, stopping only to snag a dress box stamped with Twilfitt and Tatting's discreet yet distinctive logo.

The compartment seemed very quiet without the squabbling duo. Greg heaved a sigh of relief and began dealing out Exploding Snap cards. Neville took a hand, but Blaise declined.

"No, thank you. I like my eyebrows as they are." He did watch intently as they began to play, trying to lure either or both of them into bets.

"They've been gone a while," Goyle muttered after several minutes had gone by, looking uneasily at the compartment door. "We're almost at King's Cross."

"Five Galleons say they're having make-up sex in the loo," Zabini suggested.

Neville grimaced, but did not disagree - he thought the Slytherin probably was correct.

Harry, in snake form, wrapped his tail around his body and stuck it in his mouth, pretending to gag.

Blaise gave him a consoling pat. "You'll gave to get used to it, Potty. They're like kneazles in heat. They - "

Hermione's return, with Malfoy a step behind her, cut off the remainder of his commentary. She was wearing a dress made out of some dark green material with a subtle sheen - Neville thought vaguely it might be satin or silk. The dress had a deep neckline, lined with black lace to make it more slightly more modest, and dozens of tiny jeweled buttons running down the back. Neville followed them with his eyes, blushing when he realized he was now staring at Hermione's bum - and it was quite nice. He only realized his jaw had dropped when Greg elbowed him and clicked it shut.

Greg was the first to stand up, remembering the painfully dull etiquette lessons from childhood all pureblood wizards endured. Neville belatedly scrambled to his feet, followed by Zabini.

Blaise, of course, was the first the speak. "You are a vision, Hermione. _Bellissima_! I haven't seen you look quite this lovely since the Yule Ball."

"Told you so," Malfoy said to the witch with a smug smile and proprietary arm around her waist.

Hermione's cheeks were pink. She swiped her hands down the form-fitting bodice, clearly uncomfortable. "It's too tight, and it's cut too low - I feel like I should be trolling for customers in Knockturn Alley dressed like this."

"Believe me, Granger, no Knockturn Alley prostitute could afford a dress like that. You are dressed at the height of pureblood fashion," Blaise reassured her.

"Which is like Muggle fashion from a century ago," Hermione complained. "And just as uncomfortable."

"Hush, Granger," Malfoy said, his hand still curled around her waist, steadying her as the train pulled into the station. "A dress like this shows how much I value you. That kind of respect is worth a bit of discomfort."

"He's right, you know," Neville added in reluctant agreement, thinking about how Carrow had kept Hannah dressed in contrast. "You saw how we all reacted. It's conditioned."

Hermione sniffed. "I saw, but I don't have to like it."

"No, but you do have to wear it," Malfoy said firmly. "Isn't it time to put Potty in his carrier?" he added with a smirk as they pulled into the station. "We don't want to alarm any Muggles with a snake on the loose."

Harry hissed at the blond, while Hermione gave him a reproachful look.

Blaise, however, chuckled. "No need for a carrier. I'll Floo right from the station, so Potty can stay 'round my neck."

"You probably should give him a new name," Greg suggested. "Potty sounds too much like Potter."

Malfoy's grey eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. "How about Hissy? It seems to suit, and Potter was always throwing hissy fits."

Harry replied with a series of hisses and vehement shaking of his head.

"Wow, I just learned how to say 'pot, meet kettle' in Parseltongue," Hermione said snarkily.

Blaise laughed. "Drake _is_ a drama queen, but I think Hissy added some other choice words in there."

Harry hissed at him, clearly not liking the proposed alias.

"Call him James," Neville interjected. "It's his middle name."

"Yes, do that," Hermione ordered bossily.

"I like it," Zabini agreed.

"I'll still call him Hissy," Malfoy shrugged. "Come on, Granger. It's time to go. We need to get to Gringott's before they close."

"Picking up some sparklies for her?" Zabini asked.

"Something like that," Draco said curtly. Once again, he and Hermione exchanged one of those indecipherable glances that told Neville they shared a secret. "Longbottom, I'm sure I'll see you soon."

Neville knew he was right. The Dark Lord's demands on his Death Eaters were becoming more frequent. "I'm sure. Take care, both of you."

Hermione smiled and Malfoy nodded before he escorted her off the train and onto the platform, less crowded than usual. Goyle gave Neville a friendly punch to the shoulder before lumbering after them to flank Hermione on her other side.

Rubbing his now-sore shoulder, Neville stepped off the train, looking for his grandmother without any real expectation of finding her. She had not responded to any of his letters since the battle, and he was expecting a chilly welcome at best. In any event, the last he had heard, she still was under house arrest.

"Expecting someone?" Zabini asked, eyebrows raised.

"Not really. My gran's always been here before, but . . . " Neville trailed off.

"My mum hasn't bothered to show up since second year," Blaise shrugged. "At least you've got your Apparition license, right?"

"Yeah," Neville replied. "Well, I'll see you and James around," he said, giving Harry a pat. It would be nice to know if the emerald-eyed snake still was the Chosen One, even if no longer in human form, but Neville figured Hermione was working on it.

The tall, dark Slytherin strode away, head proudly high and with Harry twined around his neck. Neville followed them with concerned eyes. Zabini was a clever one, but not the most responsible. He hoped Harry would be safe in his care.

With a hefty sigh, Neville took hold of his shrunken trunk and spun on the spot, thinking of Longbottom House. Since it was in Lancashire, it would have been just as easy to Apparate from Scotland, but the school governors insisted on every student - even those who were of age - taking the Hogwarts Express all the way south to London.

He landed near the pond he had spent so much time picturing as he worked on his Occlumency. Resizing his trunk, he paused for a moment to admire the evening sunlight filtering through the trees and reflecting off the water before trudging towards the house, levitating his trunk before him.

"Gran, I'm home!" he called, stepping through the oaken front door.

" _Reducto_!"

Neville's truck exploded in front of his eyes and he threw up a hasty shield charm.

"Get out of my house, Death Eater!" Augusta Longbottom screamed, from a strategic spot on the landing, clinging to the banister for support.

Neville ducked behind a handy umbrella stand. "Gran, it's still me. I haven't changed," he pleaded, knowing it was a lie. With Carrow's death, most of the restrictions on his wand had disappeared, but that did not make him eager to duel his grandmother.

"You are disgrace to this family! After all your parents sacrificed - it makes me grateful that they are beyond understanding what you've become," his grandmother said, acid etching every syllable. She shot off another shaky hex, one that Neville blocked with ease.

" _Expelliarmus_!" he shouted back half-heartedly, not wanting to hurt her, but also not wanting to be hurt himself. Even though he had pulled the spell, his grandmother flew back against the wall, cracking her head against the wood paneling.

Neville raced up the stairs, his gran's wand and his own clutched in his hand, praying to Godric she was not hurt.

His prayers were answered - she spat in his face. "I wish you had been a Squib after all," she said bitterly.

He sighed in relief. She was alive, and he could explain. Augusta Longbottom, if she was anything, was exactingly fair-minded.

"Oh, Gran," Neville sighed, holding her close, feeling just how bony and fragile she had become. "It's good be home."

 **A/N: This is the one-year anniversary for TLLH! 52 chapters, so on average, one per week. Many thanks to anyone who has left a review at any point over the last 365 days, and special thanks for last chapter's reviews by Newsie35 and Iseult. To answer Iseult's question, the story probably will be 70-75 chapters total.**


	53. Draco Gets Distracted

**_July 3, 1998_**

"Again," ordered the Dark Lord.

" _Crucio_!" Percy Weasley obeyed, his voice mechanical.

Rabastan Lestrange screamed. At the outset, he had sworn at the ginger and said filthy things about his sister, but ongoing torture had made him incapable of forming words. Despite his unemotional delivery, there was no doubt of the painful intent behind Weasley's curse.

Lestrange convulsed on the floor of Malfoy Manor's dining room, specks of spittle and pink phlegm staining his dark beard. Although the wizard was a pathetic sight, it was the safest place to look in an assembly of Death Eaters. Still, Draco's grey eyes darted around the room, making eye contact where he dared, seeking stray thoughts about Ravenclaw's diadem.

After several minutes, once Rabastan had wet himself from the pain, Voldemort raised a hand and Percy lowered his wand. "Enough. Have you learnt your lesson?"

"Yes, my lord," Rabastan whimpered. Draco made eye contact with him. He caught glimpses of a golden cup entrusted to the Lestrange family - the Hufflepuff Horcrux that Hermione already had destroyed - but there was nothing in Rabastan's mind relating to the diadem.

The Dark Lord raised his voice. "The lesson applies to all of you. I am a generous lord, and I would have given Rabastan permission to wed his brother's widow, but do not attempt to seize such a prize before I award it to you."

A chorus of affirmation echoed throughout the dining room, heads bobbing in agreement like marionettes. Draco again made eye contact here and there, delicately probing to see whose minds were unprotected. He skimmed past Longbottom, taking note of the grim set to the Gryffindor's mouth and dark circles under his eyes. There was a story there, but Draco did not waste his time or effort using Legilimency to find out what it was.

"Dunno. I think it's better to seek forgiveness than ask permission, especially with a looker like Little Red," Blaise whispered in dissent. "And everybody knows there's better than even odds Rabastan put Ginny in the pudding club instead of Rodolphus."

"She's still not worth being tortured for," Draco scoffed, discontinuing his subtle Legilimency.

"You'd do it for Hermione," Blaise pointed out. "Have done, even without adding a brat to the equation."

Since he was annoyingly correct, Draco did not reply. He gave his attention instead to Walden Macnair's report on the Scottish situation, which was as bleak as the highlands in winter.

"They've fortified their manors - fortresses is more like it - and the clan leaders have been meeting somewhere Unplottable. Looks like they'll declare their independence from wizarding Britain, maybe agree to join a loose federation once you're dead."

"They'll be waiting a very, very long time then," the Dark Lord said, allowing himself a small chuckle at the thought of his own immortality.

"Aye, I think that's what they're hoping for," Macnair said candidly. "There are Scottish wizarding clans that've been waiting for an excuse like this ever since Bonnie Prince Charlie lost on Culloden Moor."

Rather than descending into a rage and blaming the messenger - as Draco secretly hoped, since Macnair was a vicious nutter - Voldemort gave an unnerving smile. "It's been so long that they've forgotten the consequences of treason," he observed. "I shall have to remind them."

Draco waited for details, anything he could casually "allow" Granger to overhear in a conversation with Blaise or Greg. He never told her anything directly - there was no incriminating pillow talk that could be traced back to him - but he certainly allowed her to filter out the pertinent information from the interminable meetings all Death Eaters were required to attend. He also turned a blind eye when she used her charmed Galleon to pass it along.

However, to Draco's frustration, Voldemort offered no details as to how he intended to punish the rebellious Scots, but instead gestured for Scabior to speak. The Snatcher began a rambling and ungrammatical complaint about the casualties his men had suffered over the past week after being lured into ambushes by trained fighters - many of them ex-Aurors - using the Taboo as a lure.

Draco hid a grin. The Snatchers were the scum of the wizarding world, and he was delighted to hear the Order of the Phoenix was helping to thin the herd.

"Mebbe we can remove the Taboo on yer name?" Scabior finished by offering a moronic suggestion. The Dark Lord despised being referred to as Voldemort. Thanks to the _Quibbler_ , anyone who was literate now knew it was a pretentious nickname made up by a moody adolescent rearranging his Muggle first and last name with his respectable wizarding middle name.

" _Crucio_!"

"I'll take that as a no," Blaise muttered as Scabior howled. The Dark Lord's Cruciactus Curse was much more powerful than Percy Weasley's. Within a minute, Draco's ears were ringing in the sudden silence as Scabior collapsed, unconscious or maybe dead.

Without batting an eyelash at the body on the floor, Charlus Nott began an impeccably detailed briefing on the Death Eaters' efforts to consolidate control over the Wizengamot through a combination of bribes, blackmail, and threats to beloved family members. Despite his personal distaste for the man, Draco listened carefully and with grudging respect, making no attempt to read the old wizard's thoughts. Nott's plans were all too likely to work and his Occlumency shields were bloody well perfect.

Once the meeting was over and Voldemort had dismissed them all, Draco hurried upstairs to the nursery wing, converted before he left for Hogwarts into a suite of rooms for a growing boy and later remodeled by his mother into an apartment for a young man. He hoped that Granger still was awake. Late as it was, he could use some intelligent conversation as an antidote to the meeting, not to mention the distraction afforded by her warm and willing body in bed.

To his disappointment, she had fallen asleep at his desk, slumped over a pile of parchment with a book on resurrection magic open by her hand. A tiny furrow between her eyebrows showed how hard she was working to bring Potter back to human form, fretting over the Chosen Git even in her dreams. Draco's lips curled in a reflexive sneer as he stripped off his Death Eater robes and flung them on the couch with unnecessary force. Even in snake form, Hissy was a royal pain in his arse.

Indeed, Granger had come close to ripping him a new one just because Draco had pointed out that if Potter had to die in order for the Dark Lord to be defeated - which was the most sensible interpretation of the prophecy - Hissy would be much easier to kill as a snake than a human. It wasn't as though Draco was plotting to murder Potter himself or even putting a sword in Longbottom's hands so he could do the job - he was just being pragmatic about the vulnerabilities of his schoolyard nemesis.

And on the subject of Longbottom, there was the whole issue with Hermione's desire to include the big lump in all their plans even though his Occlumency shields still were spotty, all because he _might_ be the Chosen One. She was not a Legilimens, like Draco, and not directly involved in Longbottom's Occlumency trading, like Greg, but Granger still was her know-it-all self, insisting that transparency was best despite the risk that such sensitive knowledge would pose to them all in Longbottom's penetrable mind.

Even so, Draco was not about to leave her in an uncomfortable desk chair, not when she could be snug against him in a warm bed. He scooped her into his arms, smiling at the absurdly grumpy little noise she made.

"Wake up, sleepyhead," he whispered, as her long eyelashes fluttered.

Her eyes snapped open immediately. Draco silently cursed his own stupidity. He had forgotten - again - that her brand made her obey his lightest wishes as commands.

Hermione misread the angry expression on his face as directed at her, rather than himself. "What did I do now, Malfoy?" she asked, brown eyes wary.

"Nothing," he mumbled, embarrassed at having been caught staring. "You were going to get a crick in your neck if you stayed there all night."

"Is your meeting done?" she asked, still sleepy.

"Finally," he groused. "Fucking waste of time, just like Gringott's." After leaving King's Cross station, he and Granger thoroughly searched the Malfoy, Black, or Potter vaults - all of which Draco could now access as the rightful heir, since the goblins and everyone else thought Potter was dead - but Voldemort had not stashed the missing Ravenclaw Horcrux in any of them. "Not even a hint about the diadem. Either people didn't know a bloody thing or they were shielded too well for me to tell."

"At least you eliminated some of them," Hermione consoled.

"Many of them," Draco agreed. Longbottom was by no means the only Death Eater with porous mental shields. "Did you spend the entire time I was gone working to solve Hissy's many problems?"

She shook her head and squirmed in his arms. "You can put me down. I spent most of my time working on something else."

"Oh?" he inquired, setting her down on her feet with reluctance. He rather enjoyed the feeling of her bum rubbing against his groin.

Hermione pulled a couple of pieces of parchment from the top desk drawer. "I've been working on the Malfoy Manor Marauder's Map all evening. I'm curious to see if it's working. Are the Death Eaters all gone?"

Draco looked over her shoulder, equally curious. "I'm the only one left," he confirmed. "Except for He-Who-Has-No-Nose, but he's retired to the drawing room for the night."

"Hmmm," Granger hummed. "That's what the map shows, too." She handed him the second sheet of parchment, which he saw was a list of names. "Is this everyone who was at the meeting tonight?"

"Indeed it is," he confirmed, smiling down at the brilliant little witch - _his_ brilliant little witch, at least until the Dark Lord was defeated. After that, Draco knew she would be gone, back with the Weasel King or maybe Potter himself - some righteous and shiny hero who had always made the right choices because he never had to make hard ones.

"What about the potion? Is there anything else we need to do tonight?" he asked, trying to take his mind off the tempting prospect that Granger could remain his if Voldemort remained in power. Two days ago, they had begun brewing the potion to resurrect Potter in Draco's bathtub before siphoning it into a massive cauldron, now hidden in his equally massive closet.

"The potion was done about an hour after you left. It can stay in your closet under a stasis charm until Harry's birthday," Hermione replied. Although skeptical about divination, she could not dispute that Trelawney's prophecy was clear in its reference to the end of July. There also was a certain poetic justice in bringing Potter back to human form on the day of his birth that appealed to her.

"I have a better idea. Greg and I have a patrol in Godric's Hollow tomorrow night. We'll take it to the graveyard then," Draco volunteered. "If someone happens to find a Disillusioned cauldron with that particular potion by Potter's dad's grave, they'll blame the Order. It's a lot harder to blame them if the cauldron's in my closet."

"Don't get caught," she warned.

"I never do," he smirked. "So, is everything in place for Hissy's triumphant return?"

He poured himself a glass of Firewhisky as he spoke, trying to keep his tone snarky rather than bitter at how little time he had left with her.

"Not quite. I'm still trying to find a better way to make Harry into a homunculus, but he can stay in snake form while I research." The spell that Pettigrew had used to put Voldemort's spirit into a humanoid form had been easy enough to find among the grimoires in the Malfoy library, but it required the sacrifice of an infant, something that Hermione balked at.

"You drink too much, Malfoy," she added with a sniff of clear disapproval.

"And here I thought was the one who got to tell you what to do." Draco narrowed his eyes at her use of his last name. "I have a headache from trying to pry into people's minds, alright?"

She glared back at him, undeterred. "If you don't like what I have to say, then tell me not to nag. Merlin knows I've heard it from Ron often enough."

"I'm not Weaselbee." Draco automatically sneered at the mention of her ex-boyfriend. "I wouldn't give you an order like that."

"No, I know you wouldn't," Hermione said, laying an apologetic hand on his arm. "I'm sorry, Draco."

"It's alright." He gave her a crooked grin. "Besides, I need you to be able to tell me no, to stop me before I do anything unforgivable, or unforgivably stupid."

"Well, in that case . . . . " She gave a meaningful glance at the tumbler of liquor in his hand.

"This? This is just a distraction, a way to help me relax," Draco explained. "I _need_ that distraction, what with a mental despot with daddy issues having taken over the government."

"There are healthier ways to go about it," she said, her prim reply at odds with the tiny smirk on her face as she took a step closer, into his personal space.

"Did you have something in mind, Hermione?"

He was careful to make his question as open and neutral as possible. She was an enthusiastic partner, but Draco did sometimes wonder if she would be so quick to drop to her knees or spread her legs without the inducement provided by the brand on her back.

"I always have something in mind," she purred, stepping up on her tiptoes to give him a quick kiss that swiftly turned into a breathless snog. It ended when she nipped lightly at his lower lip and then teasingly stepped away.

"Granger," he growled in warning.

"Are you feeling distracted yet?" she asked mischievously.

"No, not at all," Draco said, deciding two could play this game. He took a deliberate sip from the glass of Firewhisky still in his hand.

She grabbed the hem of the oversized Falmouth Falcons t-shirt she was wearing - one that belonged to him - and pulled it over her head. While he insisted that Granger dress like a proper pureblood witch when he paraded her around the Manor, in the privacy of their rooms, she dressed as she pleased. While wearing his old shirts might have been a subtle act of rebellion on her part, Draco had no objection. He found it dead sexy.

"Are you distracted now?" she asked, standing before him wearing nothing but a pair of knickers.

"Not really," he lied, knowing the huskiness of his voice and visible bulge in his trousers betrayed him.

Hermione gave a pointed glance at his groin before looking up to meet his eyes. "You were a better liar back at Hogwarts," she observed, applying her nimble fingers to unbutton his shirt and unfasten his trousers.

"I'm not lying," he insisted, suppressing a groan. He tore his eyes away from her bare breasts, focusing on the glass of Firewhisky and taking another gulp.

"That must be some excellent liquor. May I try it?" From the amusement in her voice, Granger was aware of her arousing effect on him. Without waiting for an answer, she dipped her fingers into the tumbler clutched in his now-sweaty palm.

"Bloody hell, witch," he moaned as she sucked the Firewhisky off her fingers, eying him all the while.

"Have I succeeded in distracting you, Malfoy?" she taunted, stepping closer, so close that the hardened peaks of her nipples brushed against his bare chest as she reached into his silk boxers, stroking his hardened length.

"Almost," he grit out, willing her to get on with it. He bit his lip to keep from vocalizing that thought, knowing she would have to obey. Draco nearly cheered when Granger lowered herself to her knees and took him into her hot, wet mouth. "Thank Salazar!" he said, with fervent relief.

Blindly, he reached behind him to set the glass of Firewhisky on the desk, not caring whether it spilled. He tangled his hands in Granger's wild hair and thrust forward, relishing the fluttering sensation when the head of his cock hit the back of her mouth. Her breasts rose and fell as she breathed deeply through her nose in order to suppress her gag reflex and suck him in even deeper.

Fuck," he swore happily as Granger worked between his legs, diligent as a house-elf.

She hummed and looked up, seeking his approval. Even with Legilimency, Draco could read the question in her golden-brown eyes.

"Oh, yes, Granger," he told her. "I am now _quite_ distracted."

 **A/N: So sorry about the delay in updating - thanks to everyone for sticking with this story despite it! Special thanks to wordhoarder24 (I love jigsaw puzzles!) and susiequeen300, for her appreciation of Harry as a fashion accessory.**

 **I recently came across** ** _Dreaming of Spires_** **by mildred meadowlark - it is an intriguing and well-written Dramione memory loss story set primarily at Oxford. I recommend it for your reading enjoyment.**


	54. Ginny Gives Some Sisterly Advice

**_July 5, 1998_**

"You keep turning up like a bad Knut," Rabastan grumbled upon Percy's arrival in the surprisingly sunny drawing room at the Lestrange family's drafty old manor. "Is it really time for another one of your visits?"

Rather than greeting her brother, Ginny ignored him in favor of her scone. Percy had a safe-conduct to visit, but the guarantee of his physical safety did not require her to be pleasant or even polite to him.

"Indeed it is," Percy said. He seated himself next to Ginny without waiting for an invitation and gave a fussy sort of dry cough. "I do hope you aren't holding a grudge over what happened at the last meeting, old chap. I was only following orders."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at the glee underlying in Percy's pompous proclamation. She had known Rabastan was tortured at the last meeting - it had been obvious when he arrived home - but she had not known Percy was responsible. It made her feel slightly less hostile towards her older brother.

Rabastan slammed his teacup into the saucer, causing brown liquid - more Firewhisky than tea - to slosh over the sides. His fingers twitched in irritation, or perhaps the lingering aftereffects of Percy's Cruciatus Curse.

"Yes, we all obey the Dark Lord," the Dark wizard snarled. "But I had not realized you were such an enthusiastic follower."

"I do apologize, but I was only following orders," Percy repeated. The apologetic words were contradicted by a smirk - an expression Ginny often had seen Fred or George wear, but never her staid middle brother.

"Have a house elf fetch me once he's gone. I'll be in my study," Rabastan snapped at Ginny before storming from the room.

She laughed as soon as he slammed the drawing room door behind him, leaving her alone with her least-likable brother. "If you keep having that kind of effect on Rabastan, I'll need you to come over more often, Percy."

He gave her a strained smile. "I'll come as often as I can. How are you holding up, Gin?"

She shrugged. "I'm alright." It was more or less the truth. Her morning sickness was abating, Rabastan did not beat or rape her, and really her standards had gotten appallingly low.

"How is your pregnancy going?" Percy asked, awkwardly.

Ginny shrugged again, this time to hide her growing excitement about the new life she and Harry had created. Percy had murdered their parents to gain Voldemort's favor, so he certainly would not balk at betraying an unborn nephew. "I've an experienced Medi-witch as my midwife, and she tells me everything is progressing as it ought. She's very conservative, though, so I'm a bit restricted in the spells I can do."

"Good, good," Percy said absently, taking a sip of tea.

"Are you even listening to me?" Ginny demanded. Though in truth, the pregnancy-related restrictions on her magic were a good thing, in that they allowed her to delay the resurrection of one Bellatrix Lestrange. She placed very little faith in Trixie's protests that she represented all that was sane and good in that mad, evil witch, but she was honor-bound to restore her to human form. Ginny had not sworn an Unbreakable Vow, but her magic still recognized the deal she had made with the she-devil. Trixie had upheld her end of the bargain by killing Rodolphus, and there would be consequences for Ginny if she did not eventually obtain a human body for the Horcrux mirror.

"I just said I have limits on my magic because I'm expecting, and you said that was _good_." Ginny rolled her eyes in irritation.

"Sorry," Percy said. "I drifted off for a minute. I'm afraid I've been sleeping poorly."

"Have some more tea," Ginny suggested, after a quick examination of the dark circles under her brother's eyes. "Or would you prefer coffee?"

"I'm fine, thank you," he waved her off. "What about Rabastan? How is he treating you?"

Ginny tamped down her irritation at the persistent if well-intentioned questioning. Percy had been the same way her first year at Hogwarts, asking questions about problems that were too big for either of them to solve. "Better than Rodolphus, not that that's saying much," she answered.

"I wish I could have stopped him from marrying you," Percy said guiltily. "But he Stunned before I could even get to my wand. I feel like such a pillock."

For reasons Ginny did not quite understand, she felt more like consoling him than berating him. The anger she had felt towards Percy since the battle at Hogwarts was beginning to abate. Perhaps the pregnancy hormones were making her go soft. "Ah, well," she said flippantly. "One husband down, one to go. You could help me with that," she added, not really joking.

Percy shook his head, taking her seriously. "Right now, it would not be prudent. The Dark Lord would only hand you over to another Death Eater, one who might be worse than Rabastan."

"Better the devil I know," Ginny agreed. "You always were the sensible one, Percy."

He flinched slightly at her bitter sarcasm. "I swear on my magic I will help you when the time is right," he promised.

She nodded in acceptance. It was a more binding promise than the one she had given to Trixie. Her brother opened his mouth, probably to ask yet another question. Ginny beat him to it, feeling firmly that turnabout was fair play.

"Enough about my shitty marriage. What about you, Percy? Is there a special witch in your life?"

"Madam Umbridge has been very assiduous in her attentions," he answered, straight-faced.

Ginny gaped at him for just a moment before he cracked a tiny smile. Then she cackled with outright glee. "The pink hag? Are you serious?"

" _She_ certainly is," Percy said with a grimace. "Fortunately, my girlfriend has been keeping her at bay."

Ginny raised her eyebrows in surprise at his casual mention of a girlfriend. Percy had always been very private, even secretive, about his love life. "A new girlfriend? Do tell," she invited.

Percy gave her a quelling look. "You're a terrible gossip, Ginevra."

"So what if I am?" she shrugged. "It's not like I'm going to share girlish secrets with Rabastan or the house-elves."

"She's . . . well . . . she's rather brilliant," Percy said, giving in to Ginny's prodding. "Pretty, and clever, and-"

"What's her name?" Ginny interrupted. Wizarding Britain was small enough that she probably would know her, if she had attended Hogwarts.

"Audrey. Audrey Selwyn," Percy answered, utterly unconscious of the slightly dopey expression on his face.

Ginny hid a grin at the sight. "I remember her. She was Head Girl my third year and only took about a hundred points off me."

"Which I am confident you richly deserved, since you were quite the troublemaker and Audrey is nothing but fair." Percy leapt to his girlfriend's defense.

"She's also a swot and a stickler for the rules - like a pureblood version of Penelope Clearwater. She must be perfect you, given your new politics," Ginny observed with an edge to her voice.

Percy glared at her. "Please do not presume anything Audrey or my relationship with her. Or Penny," he added as an afterthought.

"Can I presume your relationship with Audrey is serious?" she asked.

"As I said, she is my girlfriend. Only the second one I have had in my life," Percy replied stiffly.

"So, when is the wedding?" Ginny needled. "If she's a Selwyn, her family probably wants her married off straightaway."

"They do," Percy said tiredly, "but Audrey likes her independence. I, for one, support her right to a career and would prefer a longer courtship, but there are pressures on both of us . . . . " He trailed off, staring into the dregs of his tea as though he could read the future.

"You could do a lot worse," Ginny counseled. "So could she."

"I am aware of that," Percy stated. "However, I am not certain it would be fair to Audrey to take further steps in our relationship when I still have feelings for another."

"Dear Dolores?" Ginny queried with a wicked smile, surprising a snort of laughter from her brother.

"Actually, I detest pink and loathe cats, so that romance was doomed from the start," Percy said, utterly deadpan.

"Well, it never was going to work out between you and Penny. Definitely not after you got that lovely tattoo on your arm. Who knows if she's even still alive," Ginny stated with deliberate callousness.

He looked away, his jaw clenched. Unlike her other brothers or Ginny herself, all of whom would explode with anger, Percy would internalize. "Penny's still alive," he bit out. "She's safe for now, in Romania."

Ginny blinked, wondering how he had come by that information. Perhaps Charlie had sent him an Owl, before finding out what Percy had done to their parents.

"I'm glad for her," she said, after a pause. "I wish I were there, too."

She watched him for a moment, then decided to favor him with her opinion. After all, she was Molly Weasley's daughter. "If I were you, I would hold on to Audrey as tightly as you can. There's not much love left in this world - if you've found even a little, you're luckier than you deserve to be."

Percy's lips thinned and color rose in his pale cheeks. Before he could reply, Rabastan burst into the room, a smirk on his bearded face.

"Weasley, I never thought I would say this, but it's a good thing you're still here! Nott just Fire-Called me to say the Dark Lord wants us to attack Shell Cottage this evening," Lestrange related, not bothering to suppress his excitement.

"But . . . but the raid isn't supposed to take place until after the full moon on Thursday," Percy protested. "That was the plan."

Rabastan rolled his eyes in impatience. "We're Death Eaters, not bureaucrats. We follow the Dark Lord's orders, not some paper pusher's plan. Besides, did you really think we would trust you with the real date?"

Ginny watched as Percy opened his mouth and then shut it without saying a word. Grimly, he took off his glasses, polished them, and replaced them. Now clear-sighted, he gave Rabastan a grim smile. "Of course you wouldn't trust me with the real date. It would be foolish of me to assume so. Shall we go?"

In that moment, she realized that Percy somehow had warned her surviving family of the impending raid on Shell Cottage. Despite the Dark Mark on his arm, he still was on their side - at least still loyal to his family over Voldemort. Her head was spinning and she desperately wanted to speak with Trixie, to get the mirror's candid opinion. "Be careful," she managed.

Percy gave her an odd look, but Rabastan took her concern as nothing more than his due. "That's sweet, Ginevra. Give me a kiss for good luck." He gave her no choice, shoving his tongue towards her tonsils and groping his hands down her body as she tried not to gag. Rabastan released her with a hearty laugh and a wink.

"Don't be too angry with me, pet, if I have to torture or kill any of your brothers. After all, I'm only following orders."

Disconcertingly, he was looking right at the back of Percy's head as he spoke.

 **A/N: Hi, all! As usual, thanks for the lovely reviews on this WIP - they do inspire me - with a special shout out to the rabid Tribe fan (wait 'til next year, right?) and hellina2000. We won't get there in a few chapters, but I promise you Harry will have a nice nose eventually.**


	55. Theo Reaches New Heights

**_July 5, 1998, continued_**

It was a perfect summer day, one that Theo wished he could hold in his memory forever. He and Luna were basking in the sun on the rooftop of Shell Cottage, hidden from prying Weasley eyes below in a nook between two gabled windows.

"If you could be any animal, what would you be?" Luna asked, turning her face up to sun and sniffing the salt-scented breeze.

"I'd want to be a bird of some sort. I envy their freedom," Theo replied after a moment, his eyes drawn towards the gulls darting and wheeling along the water line.

"I can see you're comfortable with heights," Luna agreed. "But I can't see you as a screeching seagull."

"No, I tend to be a quiet one."

"Something predatory, though," Luna mused, staring at him. The intent look in her eyes would have made him nervous, coming from anyone else. "A falcon, or maybe an owl. Let's see, shall we?"

She reached under her long, gauzy skirt and pulled out two wands, one from each of her combat boots. She handed the darker of the two to Theo. It felt familiar in his hands, and he recognized it as the wand he had picked up during the battle at Hogwarts - the wand that George Weasley had wanted to kill him for possessing, since it had belonged to his dead twin.

"Don't worry, Theodore. Fred won't mind," Luna reassured, seeing his hesitant hold on the wand. Theo probably should not have been reassured by her words, but he was. If anyone knew a dead wizard's opinion, it would be Luna. He gripped the wand with more confidence, feeling no resistance.

Luna smiled in approval. "Now, repeat after me - _Expecto Patronum_!" With an unexpectedly simple wand movement, a silver hare burst from her wand and began cavorting joyfully around the rooftop.

"I can't do it," Theo protested automatically. He had been expecting a simple charm to reveal what animal he had an affinity with, not the Patronus Charm. "Everyone knows Death Eaters can't do it."

"Bollocks!" Luna replied, with uncharacteristic crudity. "Professor Snape could produce a corporeal Patronus. And it was a doe, not even a snake or a bat."

Theo laughed despite himself. "I still don't think -"

"Don't think about it - just do it," Luna interrupted him. "Think of the happiest memory you can, one that makes you feel like flying."

With that advice, Theo closed his eyes and thought back to his father's austere but genuine hug of approval when he had achieved seven OWLs - one in each of the core subjects of Potions, Transfiguration, DADA, Charms and Herbology, plus his electives in Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. "A credit to the Nott name and heritage," his father had said, clapping him on the shoulder.

"Good job," Luna assessed, as Theo opened his eyes to a disappointing wisp of mist from Fred Weasley's wand. "It's better than Hermione did on her first try."

"Granger?" Theo could not hide his skepticism that the Gryffindor know-it-all had done worse out of the gate than he had with a Light charm.

"Mmmm," Luna affirmed. "It's because conjuring a Patronus is much more emotional than academic. If you don't let a blibbering humdinger disrupt your concentration, you'll see your Patronus before the afternoon is done."

Theo nodded and raised his wand for another attempt, warmed by her praise and confidence in him. There was zero chance an imaginary creature was going to mess with his concentration. " _Expecto Patronum_!"

This time, the silver mist was thicker, with a hint of feathers and wings.

"You're doing very well," Luna murmured, brushing his cheek with a kiss. Theo whipped his head around at the unexpected but by no means unwelcome touch, causing their mouths to connect. He felt her lips curve against his in a smile before she moved away. "Sorry I startled you," she apologized.

"I'm not," he grinned. " _Expecto Patronum_!"

The bird seemed to fly from the tip of his borrowed wand, powerful wings taking it upwards into the sky.

"It's a peregrine falcon," Luna identified it happily. "I knew it would be something like that!"

With a harsh _kak-kak_ , the falcon stooped towards the rooftop and Luna's Patronus. Theo's falcon pulled out of its dive at the last possible moment, even as the silvery hare darted out of the way. The bird of prey hovered teasingly above the hare, which squeaked and snorted, jumping on its powerful hind legs in an attempt to reach its feathered tormentor.

"That is not natural," Theo observed.

Luna gave him a serene smile. "Haven't you heard the phrase 'mad as a March Hare?' That perfectly describes my Patronus."

The falcon, unsure of how to address an attacking hare, wheeled away from its playful prey, beating its wings in a swift retreat towards the scrubby pine grove that marked Shell Cottage's boundary to the east. Theo followed its flight path with proud eyes, until the bird suddenly swooped down with a warning screech and then disappeared.

"Oh, fuck," Theo swore, his attention drawn to the more than twenty masked and robed figures assembled just outside the outermost wards. "Death Eaters."

Luna and her hare both swiveled their heads toward the tree line. "Go tell Bill," she said. With a twitch of its nose, the silver hare bounded across the rooftop and through the open casement window to carry out her request.

"Let's go inside," Theo suggested, uneasily watching the Death Eaters. "They're taking down the outer wards."

"We should be safe behind the Fidelius Charm," Luna soothed him. Still, she scrambled towards the window, following the path her Patronus had taken. Theo came after, looking over his shoulder with concern as the Death Eaters breached the first set of wards and approached the cottage.

In the kitchen, it was mayhem, with redheads shouting at one another. Fleur held a frying pan and glared at Ron and George as though she longed to use it for a purpose other than cooking.

"That's not cowardice. It's common sense," Bill said, pinning his younger brothers with a harsh glare. "I'm the secret keeper. They can go to town on the wards - they're still not getting into Shell Cottage. They can't even see it, for Godric's sake!"

"Just stay inside. It eez not so difficult," Fleur urged with a toss of her head, her accent thicker with stress.

"They killed Fred. They killed our parents. And they're right out there!" George roared, pointing towards the open windows.

"And we're outnumbered by more than three to one," Bill said implacably. "If you leave Shell Cottage, they'll see you and kill you, too."

Ron opened his mouth, obstinately looking to pick up where George had left out, when a man's scream interrupted him. "That's Percy," he said, unnecessarily, as all heads swiveled to the windows.

Though Rabastan Lestrange could neither hear nor see Shell Cottage, due to the Fidelius Charm, they could hear him clearly. "Weasels! Come out from your den and play! Or I'll keep it up until your blood traitor brother is a gibbering wreck." When silence answered him, he grinned and turned his wand on Percy. "I guess your family doesn't love you. I can't imagine why. _Crucio_!"

Theo clenched his jaw at the sight of the red-haired man convulsing on the ground outside the house. It was a sight he had seen several times at meetings and the two revels he had attended after being branded with the Dark Mark, but one he had hoped never to see again.

"Percy deserves it," Ron stated, an ugly look on his freckled face.

"No, he doesn't," Theo contradicted. "No one deserves that."

"He's a blood traitor. He murdered our parents to become a Death Eater!" George yelled. "He deserves whatever your lot dish out to him."

"They aren't Theo's lot. Theo's with us now," Luna interjected.

"You're mental!" Ron dismissed her.

"Stop it," Bill ordered, his voice calm and firm, carrying over his brother's tortured screams. "Percy has been passing information to the Order through me, as well as using his position at the Ministry to help as many Muggleborns as he can. Whatever happened with Mum and Dad, he's not a traitor to the Weasley family."

Grimly, he looked out the window. "I've been blessed with five lions as brothers, and I like to think I'm no coward myself, but Percy's the bravest one of us all. He told me the raid was coming, told me the expected date, but also said it might come earlier if the Death Eaters found him out."

Ron looked gobsmacked. "Well, then, aren't we going to help him?"

"No," Bill shook his head with regret, causing his dragon-fang earring to swing gently against his cheek. "There's too many of them. We'd only get ourselves killed doing something reckless like that. Percy knew the risks."

For several more minutes, maybe longer, Rabastan Lestrange continued to torture Percy as Bill, George and Ron argued over whether to rescue him. Theo tried to tune out all of the noise and tamp down his fear that the Fidelius Charm might not be as impregnable as everyone believed.

"Let's smoke the weasels out!" a masked Death Eater suggested, clearly bored by the proceedings.

"Good idea!" another seconded. " _Incendio_!" The mixture of pine needles and sea grass caught fire quickly, with the offshore breeze blowing it directly towards the cottage.

"Idiots," Bill grumbled, going to shut the window. "Not even Fiendfyre can get through a Fidelius charm. We can just cast Bubblehead Charms until they give up and go away."

" _Stupefy_!" cried George, aiming the spell at Lestrange through the other open window. Percy's screams cut off as his tormentor fell to the ground, unconscious. "What? I had to do something," he defended himself as Bill turned on him with a snarl and tackled him to the floor.

"Get down!" the eldest Weasley ordered, as a green beam of light flew through the window. "Nothing can shield an _Avada_ \- not even the Fidelius Charm - and George just showed those Death Eating bastards exactly where to aim."

"Come with me," Fleur urged them all, opening the cellar door. " _Vite, vite_!"

Bill crawled over to his wife, avoiding the deathly green beams flying overhead, followed by Ron and George.

Contrarily, Luna made for the upstairs. "I don't want to go and hide in the cellar. After my time at Malfoy Manor, I really can't stand dark, enclosed spaces," she said simply, without a trace of self-pity for her months of imprisonment.

Theo stared at her in something close to awe. This was not the loud bravado of Gryffindors, but a quiet courage that he truly admired. Of course, he followed her, ignoring Bill's commands and Fleur's imprecations. It helped that Theo's command of the French language was rudimentary at best.

Back on the rooftop, he and Luna sat in silence, watching the Death Eaters mill aimlessly below, unable to detect the cottage with the Fidelius Charm in place. It was almost peaceful, until someone re-enervated Rabastan and Percy's pained and now hoarse cries once more echoed in the salt air, easily audible over the lulling sound of the waves.

"Theo, could you summon your Patronus?" Luna asked, a distressed expression on her pretty face. "I want to try and help Percy."

"We can't cast any spells," he warned. "We're very exposed up here."

"I'm not going to cast a spell," she promised. "I'm going to summon some magical creatures to make the Death Eaters leave."

"It's too dangerous. They'll aim at my Patronus," Theo objected, hiding his skepticism. He doubted that his former compatriots would be deterred by nargles, wrackspurts, or even a Crumple-Horned Snorkack, should such a thing exist.

"Just think about your Patronus appearing on a branch over there." She pointed to a tall tree close to the cottage.

With a sigh at her obstinacy, and with the memory of her sweet kiss fresh in his mind, he had no difficulty summoning his falcon. The barrage of spells the Death Eaters aimed at his falcon made the bird scream in protest and mantle its wings, but caused it no harm.

"Good," she praised. "Now, just keep him there."

As Theo's silvery falcon swirled in the blue sky above the Death Eaters, taunting them, Luna stood to her full height on the pitched roof and flung her arms in the air, heedless of any risk of falling. She began to chant in a language utterly foreign to Theo's ears. It was not Latin-based; nor was it Celtic or Norse. He thought it might be Aramaic or ancient Egyptian - but whatever it was, he could not understand it and it made the fine hairs on his arms stand up.

"Luna, what are you doing?" he cried as the sky darkened to the color of steel. She continued chanting, utterly oblivious. Theo hoped she was only attempting to summon a summer rain storm to douse the fires and dampen the Death Eaters' enthusiasm.

Luna's voice rose to a scream and she made a tearing motion with her hands. Theo's falcon echoed the sound as her hands and magic rent the sky.

She collapsed with a thump on the roof, giving him a weak, vacant smile. "I can't control them, not really, but maybe they'll make the Death Eaters go away."

"Oh, Merlin," he swore, as dark shapes swooped down with malignant intent, his falcon driving them towards the Death Eaters. Luna had just summoned a horde of Dementors.

 **A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed since the last update, pushing this story to 1500 reviews! Special thanks to chrissy333, who snagged review #1500 and doesn't normally read dark fics. Also a shout-out to fellow Tribe fan Hshsndgauia.**


	56. Percy in Peril

**_July 5, 1998, continued_**

Percy shifted uneasily as Malfoy and Audrey's cousin Blaise Zabini worked in tandem, flying their broomsticks from point to point as they smoothly took down the boundary wards at Shell Cottage. If they had not been on opposite sides, and if Bill had not been forced to resign from Gringott's to hide out at Shell Cottage, Percy thought his oldest brother would have tried to recruit Malfoy and Zabini as curse breakers.

"Can we move ahead now?" Rabastan called out to them, fidgeting with impatience and anticipation.

Blaise swooped over on his broom, landing near them. "All clear, and no sign of blood wards," he confirmed. He took off his mask, his dark skin looking ashy, and wiped sweat off his brow. "I can't believe they didn't try to hex us."

"It's a pity they didn't," Rabastan said with blithe unconcern for the well-being of his fellow Death Eaters. "If they had, we would know exactly where the cottage is."

"Where do _you_ think it is?" he demanded, abruptly turning to Percy.

"Somewhere between here and the cliff's edge," he shrugged in response, with a casualness he was far from feeling. The raid was days earlier than he had expected, and he could only hope that Bill and his other brothers were prepared.

"Take your mask off and start walking, Weasley," Rabastan ordered, prodding him in the back with his wand for emphasis.

Percy obeyed, feeling increasingly exposed as he moved closer to where the cottage had to be. He knew that George and Ron and maybe even Fleur would be out for his blood, and only hoped that Bill would be able to restrain them.

"This should be close enough," Lestrange muttered, raising his wand in Percy's peripheral vision. " _Crucio_!"

Even as he collapsed to the ground, screaming, he was not surprised that Rabastan had cursed him. As a Death Eater who was helping Muggleborns and the Order, Percy knew he had been living on a razor's edge for two months now. It was inevitable he would fall off and be found out.

"What did I do?" he gasped, feigning ignorance, once Rabastan lifted his wand, ending Percy's first round with the Cruciatus Curse. He knew exactly what he had done to undermine Voldemort, just as he knew what punishment to expect. He would be begging for death by the time Rabastan was finished with him. He just hoped that Audrey had not been found out.

"What did you do?" Rabastan echoed mockingly, tapping his finger to his bearded chin in thought. "Well, you were born into a family of ginger blood traitors. You interfere with fun times with my wife. You tortured me at the meeting last week, and turnabout is fair play. The Dark Lord also think you have some value as bait. That seems enough to go on, doesn't it?" He grinned at Percy and raised his wand again.

This time, the pain was even worse. Percy did not know much about the Cruciatus Curse - all that he had learnt in school was that it was an Unforgivable, carrying a life sentence in Azkaban, and all he had learnt as a Death Eater was how to cast it - but either Rabastan meant it more this time or the pain from the curse built on itself. It felt like his bones were burning, but at least Audrey was not suffering with him. That thought kept him grounded through the pain.

When Rabastan let up the second time, after several minutes that seemed to stretch into an eternity, Percy was panting, too weak to even lift his head from the sandy ground. Along with his wand, he had an emergency Portkey in his pocket, courtesy of his girlfriend, but he doubted he could get his body to cooperate enough to access it. Percy also knew that if he used it to flee Shell Cottage now, his respite from pain would be a brief one, as the Dark Lord did not look kindly upon deserters. Even worse, he and Audrey both would feel Voldemort's displeasure.

"Weasels! Come out from your den and play! Or I'll keep it up until your blood traitor brother is a gibbering wreck," he heard Rabastan call to the seemingly empty shore in front of them.

Percy was relieved at the lack of a response. Ron and George were hot-headed, but it seemed that Bill was keeping them in line.

Lestrange seemed more amused than annoyed by the refusal of the inhabitants of Shell Cottage to engage, since it gave him an excuse to torture Percy again. "I guess your family doesn't love you," he smirked. "I can't imagine why. _Crucio_!"

Dimly, over his own screams, Percy heard the crackle of flames and smelt smoke off to one side, adding a jolt of fear to his pain. While fire ordinarily would not be a risk to a fully qualified wizard like himself, the Flame-Freezing and Bubblehead Charms were beyond his capabilities at the present moment, and he doubted that Rabastan would care if he got a bit singed. Then, like an ill-advised miracle, a bolt of red light flew from the invisible cottage and struck Rabastan in the chest. Percy's tormentor collapsed onto the ground beside him.

"No," Percy croaked into the sandy ground, as multiple beams of deadly green light streaked overhead towards the spot where someone had foolishly given away the location of Shell Cottage, just to save him from being tortured. Several Death Eaters began running towards the spot where the Stunner had emanated, looking for a better shot. Their feet pounded by, uncomfortably close to Percy's twitching, prone body.

One pair of boots stopped, the owner crouching low. Percy cringed, expecting more pain. Instead, the Death Eater cast a Bubblehead Charm on him. "Just stay low, Weasley," the Death Eater said in a gravelly voice that Percy had heard any number of times, usually flinging insults or obscenities at Oliver Wood and the other Gryffindor Quidditch players.

"Flint?" he mumbled, not believing his own ears. He also was a bit surprised that the former Slytherin Quidditch captain even knew how to cast the Bubblehead Charm, given that Flint had failed to achieve any NEWTs on his first go-round and had to repeat his seventh year.

"Yeah," Marcus Flint grunted, lifting his mask so Percy could confirm his identity. "I'll help you Apparate out of here once Lestrange lifts the wards."

"Why?" he croaked. His vocal cords felt shredded from all of the screaming he had done, making it difficult to speak.

Flint gave him a grim smile. "You're not a bad sort, Weasley. And maybe Katie will give me some brownie points for helping out one of her fellow lions."

Barely able to speak, Percy nodded in acknowledgment and heartfelt gratitude. "Thank you."

"I'll be back," Marcus promised, giving him a fortifying clap on the shoulder.

Percy watched him jog forward for a better shot at the still-invisible Shell Cottage. Then, from behind them both, someone fired a Killing Curse that hit Flint squarely between the shoulder blades.

"No!" Percy rasped, his futile protest muffled by the dune grass and the sounds of the one-sided assault on Shell Cottage. A Death Eater jogged forward, stopping between Percy and Rabastan's unconscious body. Once again, Percy braced himself, not sure if the masked wizard was an ally or an enemy.

" _Ennervate_!"

Next to Percy, Rabastan stirred, sitting up and groggily shaking his head. "What happened?" he asked.

"One of the blood traitors in the cottage got you with a Stunner," the other Death Eater explained. "I just revived you."

"Thanks, Avery. I owe you," Rabastan said with cursory gratitude. He turned his attention back to Percy, a twisted grin visible where his silver mask ended. "Now, where was I?"

Percy cringed against the ground and clenched his jaw, vowing not to scream this time. It was futile - within minutes, his now-hoarse cries were rising over the voices of the squabbling Death Eaters and the background noise of the sea.

Rabastan was putting everything he had into the curse. To his utter mortification, Percy felt his bladder and bowels release during this latest round of torture. The pain was just too great, not just blinding but actually chilling, and Percy felt himself trembling with cold despite the warmth of the summer day. The pain took over everything that made him a person, a wizard, something more than a dumb animal.

Percy felt the dune grass prickling against his cheek, a tiny discomfort in the grand scheme of things, and realized that might be one of his last lucid thoughts. He was going to die here in a puddle of his own filth, or be driven insane, and Audrey . . . even if she was not caught, without Percy as an option, her father would force her into marriage with some other Death Eater, one who would abuse her and despise everything that made her special. Or she would be discovered as a Muggleborn sympathizer and sent to Azkaban, where she would be driven mad by -

"Dementors!" Avery shouted, his voice shrill with terror.

Percy blinked and raised his eyes towards the sky. During the quarter hour or so he had spent being tortured, it had turned from cornflower blue to a roiling dark grey, with Dementors now pouring from a rip in one of the towering storm clouds.

"Stay and fight!" Rabastan howled.

The other Death Eaters ignored his command. Chaos reigned as the soul-sucking creatures flew onto the battlefield, causing the force of Dark wizards to devolve into a panicked mob. Avery and a handful of other Death Eaters who had the foresight to carry their own Portkeys disappeared in a whirl of dark robes, leaving their fellows behind to spin futilely in place, unable to escape due to the Anti-Apparition wards.

Percy had his own Portkey, deep in his trouser pocket. But with the uncontrollable shaking in his limbs and fingers that felt like sausages, he was unable to reach it. Asking for help was out of the question - just about every Death Eater would hex him and take his Portkey, leaving him behind. It was every man for himself.

Proving his point, Blaise Zabini ran by, attempting to resize and mount his shrunken racing broom, only to be tackled by Thorfinn Rowle. The massive Death Eater, who had lost his mask sometime during the fray, punched Zabini in the jaw, knocking him to the ground a few feet in front of where Percy lay. With a triumphant yell, Rowle flew off on the stolen broomstick, ignoring the cries for help below.

" _Expecto Patronum_!" Neville Longbottom shouted, somewhere off to the left. To Percy's surprise, the charm worked despite Neville's Dark Mark, producing a huge, pointy-eared dog that snapped and snarled at the Dementors, driving them towards Percy's side of the battlefield.

Lestrange was screaming, his face red and spittle flying as he tried to organize some sort of defense. While the fleeing Death Eaters paid no attention, his shouting attracted a Dementor. The foul, hooded creature swooped down and seized him by the throat. Percy was close enough to hear Rabastan's final whimper before the Dementor covered his mouth with its own, sucking out his soul with terrifying efficiency.

Like a child hiding under the covers, Percy closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the ground. Although he could not see them, he could hear the screams of the trapped Death Eaters and the rattling breathing of the Dementors as they drew closer.

"Mum! Help me, please! Mummy . . . " Percy heard Blaise plead, until his voice, too, was cut off by another Dementor.

"Mum," Percy echoed, muttering the word. "Dad, Fred . . . . " He could see them clearly in his mind, their bodies crumpled and the accusation in their eyes. He would not beg them for help, knowing he did not deserve any.

He could smell the Dementors now and braced himself for bony hands holding him down while he received a final kiss. Percy scrunched his eyelids even more tightly shut, not wanting to see, but the silvery light in front of his face was so bright and enticing that he was compelled to open his eyes.

A luminous hare had interposed itself between Percy and three Dementors. The little animal was squeaking in outrage as it aggressively lunged and feinted at the hooded creatures. Although the Patronus was trying compensate for what it lacked in size with sheer viciousness, it was too small to drive off multiple Dementors by itself.

"Oi! Cast your own Patronus, why don't you? Or use that Portkey in your pocket!"

"George?" Percy asked dazedly. Probably he was hearing things. Certainly either his vision was fading or the silvery light of the Patronus was dimming.

"No, you numpty. You called me, not him. Can't you see I've got both ears?"

"Fred?" Percy looked up at his dead brother. Fred indeed had both ears and was shimmering with pale light, less bright than a Patronus but still offensive to the Dementors, if their shrieking was anything to go by. "Are you coming to take me with you?" Percy asked, looking up at his dead brother, not quite daring to hope. He wouldn't feel so bad about leaving an empty shell of a body behind if he knew his soul would survive beyond the Veil despite the Dementors.

"No, I'm trying to save your sorry arse! Now be a good little wizard and cast your Patronus," Fred ordered. "Luna's Killer of Caerbannog needs a hand."

"I can't," Percy said, defeated. One of the Dementors reached a long arm around the fighting hare and drew in a deep, anticipatory breath.

"Bollocks," Fred said crudely, while giving the Dementor a two-fingered salute, a gesture that made it hiss and glide back. "You're perfect Percy, rising Ministry star and former Head Boy. If ickle Neville can do it, so can you. Now move your wand like this and say ' _Expecto Patronum_!'" He placed his translucent hand over Percy's limp one, miming the motion.

Like a puppet, Percy's hand moved at Fred's direction and his voice rasped the incantation.

"Hey, that's my Patronus!" Fred cried happily, as Luna's hare was joined by a rangy hyena. His laughter was echoed by his Patronus as it chased the Dementors a safe distance away.

"Now that the Dementors have buggered off, let's get you out of here," said Fred, concern evident. "Where to? St. Mungos?"

Percy nodded, but then jerked in protest as his eyes glanced over the two unmoving bodies closest to him. "Wait! I should bring Flint. And Blaise Zabini - he's Audrey's cousin."

Fred shrugged. "Personally, I'd leave them for the seagulls, but whatever. Just don't ask me to help you with Lestrange."

"No, he can stay here and rot," Percy agreed. Like Blaise, Rabastan was still breathing, but his eyes were empty.

Once again, Fred placed his hand over Percy's, directing his movements. Eerily, Percy could see the freckles on the back of his own hand through his brother's transparent one. Working together, they Levitated Flint's corpse and Zabini's soulless husk close enough to touch. Both of their hands were still warm but slack, and Percy had to force himself to grasp them.

"Ready?" Fred inquired. "I should have just enough energy for your Portkey."

"Will I see you again?" Percy asked. They had never been close - certainly not like Fred and George - but he had a sudden, desperate desire to rectify that.

Fred winked at him. "Someday." He smirked in the annoying manner of a younger sibling and activated the Portkey. Percy felt a tug behind his navel, taking him away before the screams and groans of the battlefield before he could ask anything more.

 **A/N: First, my apologies to anyone who is reading for making you wait more than a month for this update. I had more than a thousand words written before New Year's, but hit a wall after that. Your reviews really encouraged me to keep slogging through. Special props to gigglymonkey12 and toavoidconversation, who reviewed my completed stories and then came over to this WIP. Also thanks to melissa1565 and SaniV, who both left reviews requesting an update in a way that was encouraging and not stressful.**


	57. Hermione Tries to Kiss It All Better

**_July 6, 1998_**

Hermione awoke from a restless sleep to the sound of a door slamming in the outer room of Malfoy's suite. She sat bolt upright in his ridiculously oversized bed, grabbing her wand from beneath the pillow and casting a hasty _Lumos_ to penetrate the midnight darkness shrouding the room.

When he had to leave her, Malfoy always warded the door that led from his wing to the outside corridor - where Death Eaters, Snatchers, and werewolves roamed - but wards could be broken. And if Draco were killed, his wards _would_ break. It was a fear Hermione resolutely shoved away every time he was called away on a mission for Voldemort.

The waiting was the worst for her, always. She would rather be out there fighting. When Malfoy had been summoned to participate in a raid late in the afternoon, Hermione had first occupied herself at first by manufacturing more Protean-charmed Galleons. Her . . . lover, co-conspirator, master, whatever he was . . . had taken her existing stock with him. He, Goyle, Neville, and Zabini always stealthily left them behind after every raid for Order members to find and activate.

When her control over the fiddly charm work began to slip, Hermione had turned back to her research on returning Harry to his human body. The many Dark magic tomes she and Malfoy had found in his family's library offered no alternative to the use of a baby as the base ingredient for the homunculus, something Hermione balked at. With that research having reached a frustrating dead end and Malfoy still absent, she then used her own charmed Galleon to send messages to each of the resistance cells, trying to learn what was going on. By the time Luna had responded, confirming there had been a battle at Shell Cottage but it was over, with no casualties on the Order's side, Hermione's map of the manor showed Malfoy was back in his ancestral home, meeting with Voldemort and several other members of the inner circle in the dining room.

That left Hermione to puzzle over Luna's inquiry as to Rabastan Lestrange's health - _why would she care?_ But Rabastan did not appear on her map, so she was unable to answer her friend's question. Hermione never left Malfoy's rooms unaccompanied, and her tired eyes merely glanced over the tiny dots showing him, Nott, Rookwood, Avery and several other Death Eaters as they danced attendance on Voldemort for hours. Long after dinner time, Lucretia Flint made a brief appearance on the map, arriving by Floo with Katie Bell. The two witches departed within minutes, before Hermione could formulate any sort of plan to help or even make contact with her fellow Gryffindor girl. Malfoy disappeared off her map shortly thereafter, presumably off on another mission for the Dark Lord. Hermione then had gone to bed and, once her exhaustion had overcome her worries, she eventually had fallen asleep waiting for him to return.

Now, a tall, masked Death Eater appeared in the bedroom doorway. Incongruously, Hermione smiled and lowered her wand. She recognized the mask, not to mention the aristocratic stance. "Malfoy." She sighed in relief. "You're back."

He gave no response, staring at her in his bed from behind the silver mask.

"Draco? What's wrong?" she queried, worried by his uncharacteristic silence and stillness. In the ordinary course, he came back from skirmishes high as a kite, still running on the adrenaline of battle. She was accustomed to his voluble and profane commentary on what had happened, followed by an enthusiastic shagging as he celebrated being alive after a pitched battle in the way that men had done since time immemorial.

The Death Eater in the doorway continued to stand there, watching her in unnerving silence. With a prickle of unease, Hermione's eyes darted to the map of the manor she had left open on the bedside table, confirming his identity. It _was_ Malfoy, no matter how oddly he was acting.

Leaving her wand on the pillow, she got up from the bed and walked over to him, twining her arms around his neck in a soft embrace. "Are you alright? You can tell me what happened," Hermione offered.

"It was a clusterfuck," he said dully, pulling his mask off before flinging it away. "Your sweet and light Order of the Phoenix summoned Dementors, Granger. Fucking _Dementors_."

She drew in a sharp breath. "Who?" she asked, unable to finish the question. Not who had done it - this was war, after all, but who had been Kissed.

"I was lucky," Malfoy continued in a flat voice, not meeting her eyes. "Greg and I were near Longbottom, and he was able to cast a Patronus to keep those _things_ away from us. But Blaise was caught on the other side of the battlefield."

He tensed, clenching his fists and jaw. "Fucking Lestange wouldn't drop the Anti-Apparition wards. Fucking Rowle mugged Blaise and took his broomstick. I had my Nimbus and thought I could fly through and get Blaise out of there, but a Dementor got to him before I could . . . ." His voice trailed off, and he looked absolutely shattered.

"Oh, no! I'm so sorry!" Hermione gasped, conscious even as she spoke that her words were pathetically inadequate. Draco and Blaise had been like brothers. That thought made her think of the wizard who was like a brother to her. "What about Harry? We'll have to go and fetch him."

Malfoy looked irritated, as usual, at the mention of his Hogwarts rival. "Hissy can go and bugger himself with his own snaky little tail," he suggested crudely. "He'll keep on his own for a day or so. He doesn't need _that_ much attention, does he?"

Hermione bit back the reflexive defense of her best friend. This was not the time to get into a row with Malfoy. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Blaise is beyond help." Malfoy shut his eyes, hiding his emotions from her. "So is everyone else who was Kissed or killed."

"Who else?" Hermione inquired.

"Both Flints. Someone got Marcus in the back with an AK and a Dementor got to his dad," Malfoy replied. "Everyone else was pretty low-level. Too stupid to think of another way to escape when they couldn't Apparate out. I thought Rabastan might have been Kissed, but no such luck," he concluded, sounding bitterly disappointed. "At least I got to _Crucio_ him for his incompetence."

"Is there anything I can do to help _you_?" she asked, running a finger along his jawline, ignoring his casual confession about the use of an Unforgivable, wanting to comfort him but not knowing how.

His eyes snapped open and met hers, looking darker than usual. "You can kiss me," he suggested.

She did, placing her lips softly over his and gently flicking her tongue against his closed mouth, urging him to open up to her physically, even if he was shutting himself off emotionally. Malfoy then seized control of the kiss, tangling his fingers in her hair and angling her head so that he could claim her mouth, her body, maybe even her soul. "I need you," he said hoarsely, wrenching his mouth away from hers. "I need you to help me forget. I need you to make me remember I'm alive."

"Take whatever you need," she offered recklessly. With that, Malfoy spun her around and pushed her facedown on the mattress, shoving the comfortable and faded Quidditch jersey she had worn to bed up around her shoulders, leaving her body bare except for her knickers. Hermione thought he was going to strip the shirt off her, but he paused when he saw the lettering on the back. "'Property of D. Malfoy,'" he read, sounding far too pleased at her choice of clothing. "We'll leave that on you, I think."

Her knickers, however, he ripped down to her ankles with an impatient sound. She kicked the offending undergarments away, moving her feet further apart to grant him easier access to her body. Hermione tensed in anticipation as she heard the clink of Malfoy's belt being unbuckled, the sibilant sound of his trousers being unzipped, and the soft rustle of fabric as he positioned himself behind her.

She was hoping for the touch of his long, skilled fingers at the juncture of her thighs, but instead felt the broad head of his cock at her unprepared entrance. She fisted the duvet cover and took her lower lip between her teeth, enduring the discomfort as he gripped her hips and began with work his way inside her with short, sharp thrusts. If Malfoy needed to fuck his demons out, needed to fuck them into her, then she would let him.

"Merlin, you're tight," he whispered hotly into the shell of her ear. "If I hadn't fucked you already this morning, I would swear on my magic you were a virgin."

Hermione moaned in response, knowing it was an ambiguous sound as to pleasure or pain. She had often reveled in Malfoy's size and stamina, but tonight she felt like there was a battering ram between her legs. He continued to relentlessly force his way into her body until she had taken his full length, her core stretched out and throbbing at the sensation.

Breathing hard, Malfoy released his bruising grip on her hip bones and moved his hands up and underneath her body to knead her breasts with his callused palms. "I wish you could see yourself, Granger, how hot you look spread out and impaled on a Death Eater's cock," he observed, sounding dispassionate despite their physical intimacy.

"Not some Death Eater's cock," she argued with a soft gasp as he tugged sharply on her nipples. "Yours."

"Forgetting something, love? I _am_ a Death Eater." He shoved his sleeve up to his elbow, laying his now-bare forearm alongside her face, his voice filled with disgust at the inky brand marring his skin.

Malfoy was still almost entirely clothed, while she was all but naked, a realization that made Hermione feel more than a bit vulnerable. Still, she was not going to back down and leave him alone to whatever ghosts were haunting him. " _My_ Death Eater," she disagreed. Rather than recoiling from his Dark Mark, she traced the skull and snake with her tongue in an erotic pattern.

"Oh, Granger, I am going to fuck you raw," Malfoy promised, his voice husky with lust. "Do you want me to do that to you, witch?"

"Yes," she muttered her consent into the mattress, clenching her body in anticipation of that hard usage. "Please fuck me like that."

"And when I'm done fucking you," he continued, his voice low but clear as flexed his fingers on her hip bones, loosening and tightening, "I'm going to come deep inside you, so deep that I'll leave something of myself behind."

Something inside Hermione twinged in desire, even as alarm bells jangled in her mind at what he was implying. It was only early July, and she still planned on taking her birth control pills through the end of the month. She still felt hopeful, even cautiously optimistic on her good days, that Voldemort would be defeated by then.

"Yes," she nevertheless hissed in assent. With the tiny portion of her brain that was currently capable of logical thought, she reasoned that even if Malfoy wanted her to fall pregnant, mere words would not make it so.

At first, his pace was slow and grinding. Hermione was more aroused than she had been during his initial penetration, stimulated by his words and rough hands on her breasts, but still far from fully wet. But her body sluggishly responded to Malfoy's insistent thrusting with more lubrication, allowing him to move with greater speed and force. Within minutes, he was slamming in and out of her body, his bollocks slapping against her skin and the tip of his cock clipping her cervix at the deepest point of each thrust. Hermione's squeals and screams were partially muffled by the mattress as she writhed underneath him, taking everything he had to give.

When Draco climaxed, he shouted with pure, raw pleasure, holding himself as deep as possible within her. Hermione had not expected that she would orgasm - she was more focused on his gratification than her own - but the sensation of Malfoy's semen spurting inside her as he was buried to the hilt triggered a primal response. She convulsed around his emptying cock, drawing his release further into her.

He partially collapsed over her prone body, supporting most of his weight on his elbows so as to not crush her. Hermione found the feeling of his torso pressed against her back comforting, despite the smoky smell and itchiness of his Death Eater robes against her bare skin. Draco made a deeply satisfied sound, still holding his softening cock within her, before latching his lips onto her neck, leisurely nipping and sucking to leave a visible mark of his dominion over her body for everyone to observe.

She turned her head to one side, giving him a better angle, her eyes fluttering shut. Her legs felt wobbly enough that he was more than halfway supporting her, keeping her pressed against the bed rather than slumping to the floor in boneless exhaustion.

He took a step back, withdrawing from her body as he lifted her onto the mattress. Draco solicitously drew his purloined Quidditch shirt down, covering her body. He did not replace her knickers, but positioned a pillow under her hips instead before pulling the sheet over her.

He gave her a satisfied smirk. "Thanks, Granger, I needed that."

"Come to bed?" She gave him a sleepy smile and patted the space beside her in invitation. Hermione was expecting him to lay down beside her, to curl his body behind hers and confide in her now that his immediate physical needs had been satiated.

Instead, Malfoy straightened to his full height and moved away from the bed, evading her eyes. "I'm going to take a shower. Don't wait up for me." He walked away to the en suite bathroom without a backwards glance.

Hermione lay on the bed in the dark, listening to the water run, tired but unable to fall asleep. She felt sore, empty, and more than a little bit used.

 **A/N: It's been a while, hasn't it? Thank you all for your patience and reviews in the meantime, especially to joylesslyinlove (review #1600 - whee!) and MysteriousSnape for a very polite and gracious comment. (No, it hasn't been so long that I've entirely forgotten what happened to Rabastan last chapter! Just think why Luna might be worried about him...)**


	58. Draco's Pillow Talk

**_July_** **_6, 1998_**

Draco stood beneath the shower head, eyes shut, hot water mixing freely with tears on his face as he cried. He had set the shower more than a touch too hot for comfort, allowing the near-scalding water to redden his fair skin. It was far less than the punishment he deserved for having fucked up again, for having failed to save another friend. Crabbe's casket was filled with ashes. Theo's body had never been found. Blaise's body was whole and intact - it still even breathed - but without a soul, he inevitably would waste away and die within a matter of weeks.

Long after his body was clean and scrubbed, Draco left the steamy comfort of the shower stall. Even as he toweled himself dry, grey eyes skating over his Dark Mark, he already felt filthy again, tainted by the vile magic he had to wield and the chilling certainty that it would only be a matter of time before Voldemort set another unforgivable task for him.

At least he still had a few hours until dawn, precious time to rest and recover, to regain the cold equilibrium that allowed him to survive as a Death Eater. As he exited the bathroom, Draco was very much looking forward to curling up with Hermione on their bed and holding her while she slept, burying his face in her wild hair and hopefully even drifting off himself. But when he slipped under the covers and pulled her back against his bare chest, her entire body felt tense. Clearly, she was still awake.

"I thought I told you not to wait up for me, Granger," he grumbled into her shoulder. He noticed that she had changed out of his old Quidditch jersey into some frayed red and gold abomination, in an unsubtle reminder that she was only pretending to be his.

"I took it as a suggestion, not a command," the witch shrugged, still with her back to him. "Besides, I couldn't fall back asleep."

She hesitated, and he felt her breathe in and out before speaking, undoubtedly on the cusp of saying something sensitive. "Would you . . . would you like to talk about Blaise?" she asked.

"Not now," he bit out, more harshly than intended. He wasn't some soppy Hufflepuff, after all.

She stiffened in silent offense, creating a small gap between their bodies. Before she could move further away from him, Draco reached forward and grabbed her hand, squeezing it in a wordless apology. "When I'm ready, I'll talk to you," he promised.

"Alright, Malfoy," she agreed, shifting uncomfortably. The pillow he had placed under her hips after having taken her so roughly was gone, probably flung onto the floor if Granger was in a mood.

"Did I hurt you earlier?" Draco asked, feeling a sudden flash of shame. She had freely offered her body for his comfort, but he still knew the way he had used her had been selfish at best, brutal at worst.

"Physically? We've had rough sex before," she replied, evading a direct answer.

"Yes, but you didn't give me the cold shoulder afterwards," he pointed out.

She sighed. "It wasn't that you shagged me, Malfoy. You treated me like an object, a hole to be filled. Or a patch of dirt to be thoroughly plowed and planted with your pureblood seed."

He flinched as her words hit home, grateful that she was tucked under his chin and could not see his face or read the guilt in his eyes.

"You told me the night that you branded me that you wanted a co-conspirator, not a fuck toy," Hermione continued, rolling over to face him, her brown eyes squarely meeting his. "I need to know whether that's still true."

Every Slytherin instinct he had was screaming for him to lie, or at least dissemble. She would not appreciate the truth, or at least not the whole truth. The brand on her back was designed to make her compliant and to make him possessive, no matter how hard they both fought against those impulses.

"It's still true," Draco said, with utter honesty. "I want you by my side, as my co-conspirator." She might not, however, approve of his methods of keeping her there. She also might not appreciate that he now viewed her as much more than a mere co-conspirator. She visibly softened at his sincerity, so much that Draco felt a pang of remorse at his omissions.

His lips quirked and he decided it was safe to admit just a little bit more. "I also want _you_. As much as I like knowing you've got my back, sometimes I enjoy having you on your back." He rolled on top of her to illustrate, smirking down at her bed-mussed hair and reddened lips. Sex was a safe form of affection, at least when compared to love.

"Don't be a prat, Malfoy!" she laughed, slapping at his chest with a playful hand. "Now get off me - "

"All in good time," he suggested, grinding his hips into hers. "I'll be gentler this time. If you want me to be," he added with a smirk.

"What I really want is to know why Katie Bell was here at the manor earlier tonight," she said, squirming to get out from underneath him.

Draco rolled onto his elbow, taking the hint. Granger wanted conversation, not another shag. The topic she had selected also was one designed to drive any randy thoughts straight out of his mind. "How did you know Bell was here?" he inquired, no longer smirking.

"I saw her on the map, just briefly."

"You don't miss much, do you, Granger? You're quite the little spymaster." Draco felt rather proud of her. She might be regarded by the Dark Lord and other Death Eaters as his well-trained sexual pet, rarely permitted outside his suite of rooms, but in reality she was coordinating intelligence for the resistance right under their noses - or lack thereof, in Voldemort's case.

"What will happen to Katie, with both Flints dead or incapacitated?" Hermione asked, ignoring the compliment.

As usual, with unerring instincts and Gryffindor bluntness, she had put her pretty little finger on exactly what was bothering him. It had been a terrible night, with Blaise's loss topped off by a grim reminder of how vulnerable Hermione was - and how vulnerable she made him, by extension.

"A few Death Eaters tried to put in a claim, but Bell is up the duff, so she'll stay with Madam Flint until the baby's born," Draco answered. "Lucretia intends to acknowledge the baby as the Flint heir - their estate isn't entailed, so it can pass to any acknowledged issue."

"What will happen to Katie then, after she has her baby?" Hermione asked, much more concerned for her fellow Gryffindor than continuation of a Sacred Twenty-Eight line.

"The same thing that would have happened tonight if Bell wasn't expecting. Voldy will hand her out to whomever is his current favorite to be branded and raped until she's breeding again," Draco told her bluntly. He needed Granger to understand what was at stake here, what they both were risking through continued use of those surprisingly effective Muggle pills of hers. "Probably she'll go to Avery, even though my Galleons say he was the one who killed Marcus."

Hermione looked disgusted and horrified. "He'll just pass Katie out like candy to reward a murderer?"

"The Dark Lord likes that kind of initiative," he confirmed.

"That's awful!" she protested, with a Gryffindor's naïve notion of fair play.

"He would do the same to you if anything happened to me," Draco stated grimly, knowing that there was a target on his back. Not only did he have to worry about an Order member killing him during their increasingly vicious skirmishes, but he had seen other Death Eaters watching Granger with covetous eyes on the occasions when he had been required to take her out of his rooms and parade her around the manor.

He placed two fingers under her chin, using them to tilt her head until their eyes met and her full focus was on him. "Once you're pregnant, if anything happens to me, you would go to my mother until you have the baby. Hopefully, that would give you enough time to figure out a way to escape. It might even give Hissy or Longbottom or some combination of those two gormless idiots sufficient time to figure out how to end the Dark Lord."

Her eyes widened in alarm. "Draco, please . . . I'm not ready for that." She put a hand on his chest, in a gesture that might have been pleading or a reflexive attempt to push him away.

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not going to force you. You should know that by now," he spat, hiding his hurt at the rejection beneath a veneer of anger.

"I know you wouldn't. It's just that - "

"What would you have done if I had been the one kissed by a Dementor instead of Blaise, Granger?" he demanded, cutting off her halting explanation. "Or if someone got me with an Avada?"

"I would have tried to escape, of course," she stated.

"By Floo? They're all blocked. By Apparating out? We have blood wards that prevent Apparation by anyone who isn't a Malfoy," Draco replied.

"I could ask a house elf to take me away from the manor," she suggested.

"That wouldn't work, Miss SPEW," Draco informed her, increasingly frustrated with her infuriating obstinance. "Malfoy elves are tied to the Manor and can't leave without permission from their master or mistress. They wouldn't listen to you."

"Dobby - "

" - was a free elf and an aberration," he interrupted, needing her to listen to him. "Let me tell you what would have happened, Granger, if I had been killed or Kissed. You would have done your best to escape but you would have been caught. Then your evening would have gone the same - a Death Eater would have fucked you while you moaned and screamed. But you would have been making those sounds out of pure pain, with no pleasure mixed in, and he wouldn't have bothered to ask for your consent. After he finished, he would have burnt his brand onto your skin over mine and dragged you out of the manor without those precious Muggle pills you take every morning."

Hermione looked shaken, recognizing the raw truth behind his words. Still, she protested. "It's a terrible time to be pregnant. I don't know what it would do to my magic, and the baby would be a hostage to fate."

"Not fate, little lioness. He would be a hostage to the Dark Lord," Draco corrected. "Do you think I'm not used to having the ones I love in that situation?" His father and mother, starting the summer after his fifth year, and now Granger herself - though he shied away from admitting that out loud.

"I would take care of you. Both of you," he promised, meaning it as much as any words he ever had said.

"I trust you, Draco." Hermione snuggled against him, demonstrating that trust. "Really, I do."

He felt the cold knot of fear in his chest loosen and hoped she would be sensible. "I would do whatever it takes to protect you. To protect _us_ ," he emphasized.

She gave him a wry grin. "I know. Frankly, that's what scares me sometimes."

Draco moved in to kiss her, to snog her doubts away.

"Why can't we wait until the end of the month, though? This could all be over by then, if the prophecy is to be believed." Granger bit her lower lip as she pulled away slightly, frustrating him in more than one way.

"Because Divination is bollocks, and you and I both know it. Even if the prophecy is a true one, it's too wooly. It could be referring to the end of July eighteen years in the past or ten years into the future. Merlin only knows," Draco argued, exasperated.

"But it could be this July," she argued right back. "Why not give it three more weeks like we'd planned? Harry might end it by then."

"Hissy?" Draco snorted in derision. "Even when he was a human instead of a snake, he was a mediocre wizard who relied his luck and your brains to survive as long as he did."

Stubbornly, Hermione shook her head. "You underestimate Harry. You always have."

"You're smarter than this, Granger." Draco attempted to reason with her. "Look, even if he is the Chosen One, the homunculus ritual is going leave him weak. It took the Voldy months to get back to full magical strength. And you saw what happened at Hogwarts, when Potter last tried to duel the Dark Lord. He _died_."

"Harry didn't die. He just lost his body," she argued, weakly enough that Draco knew he was wearing her down.

"Please, Granger. Are you trying to tell me Potter's only mostly dead?" he inquired with bitter sarcasm. "That's absurd. It's like saying Blaise didn't die tonight, but just lost his soul."

Her eyes widened. "Say that again."

He cast his mind back on his last words. "Oh, no. Fuck, no. Absolutely not." He thumped his head against the pillow for emphasis. Draco knew, from his repeated readings of _Magick Moste_ _Evile_ , that it was possible for Potter to possess Blaise's soulless body, but that did not make it desirable in any way, shape or Zabini-like form. "We are not doing that, Granger."

"Why not?" she challenged. "It's not nearly so evil as sacrificing a baby to create a homunculus. And you know Blaise never wanted to be a Death Eater. He would have wanted to help Harry."

"No, Blaise would have wanted to live a long and dissipated _dolce vita_ , eventually dying at a respectable old age in his villa while banging some disreputable _signorina_ at least eighty years his junior," Draco rejoined. "He didn't give a rat's arse about Potter or saving the world."

"You're right," Hermione agreed with suspicious docility. Normally, the witch would argue more, worrying at an issue with the obstinate tenacity of a Crup with a bone. "I also can see why it would be painful for you to see someone who looked like Blaise but wasn't. Like Polyjuice, but worse."

Draco nodded jerkily, not trusting his voice to speak. Granger had gone straight to the heart of his objection. Blaise - cool, irreverent, and with a neutrality to rival Switzerland - was the polar opposite of the hot-headed and sanctimonious Chosen One. Instinctively, Draco recoiled from the idea of having Potter prancing around in his best friend's body.

"We still should fetch Harry tonight," she cajoled. "Blaise wasn't the only one kissed by Dementors at Shell Cottage. Perhaps we can find someone else you weren't as close to, like Flint's father."

Even though he thought it was a daft and risky plan - how would they explain someone's miraculous recovery from a Dementor's kiss?- Draco could not refuse the appeal in her dark eyes, halfway between the color of Firewhiskey and chocolate - two of his favorite indulgences. "Alright, Granger," he sighed. "We'll collect Hissy and take him to the Goyles. Then I'll go to St. Mungo's with Greg. That's where your compassionate Order probably will have dumped their victims."

She was already in motion, off the bed and scrambling for her leggings. "Thank you, Draco. Will you take me by Side-Along, please?"

He nodded. "As soon as I'm dressed."

She watched him with a mix of impatience and gratifying appreciation as he stepped into a clean pair of trousers and buttoned up his shirt. Draco then offered her his arm as he prepared to Apparate them to the Zabini's flat. "You know, if you were pregnant, you would be able to Apparate from the manor. The wards would recognize it as Side-Along with a Malfoy," he observed, continuing their earlier discussion.

Hermione looked intrigued at that tidbit as she took hold of his arm, but then shook her head. "That's not a good enough reason to bring a child into this world."

"Perhaps not." He gave a non-committal shrug, allowing her to have the last word - for this round. He would keep trying to convince her and, if that failed, he would implement his own contingency plan.

They made a steady landing in the lounge of Blaise's flat, blinking in the unexpected bright light in the middle of the night. Every lamp in the room was on, illuminating the dark-haired witch sitting on the sofa with a snake in her lap. She was not a traditional beauty - she had the lines and shadows on her face earned by a woman who lived and loved too hard - but she drew attention like a magnet. Draco barely even noticed the mousy blonde and spectacled ginger seated off to her side.

"Madam Zabini," he said, respectfully inclining his head and trying to hide his surprise.

"Draco, I've been expecting you," she purred.

 **A/N: If I ever write a Marauders-era story, it will feature my head canon of the fabulous Mrs. Zabini. Thanks and virtual hugs to all of you who are sticking with this story despite the length of time between updates, with special acknowledgment to clarkfan325 and AnnaOxford for their reviews of multiple chapters. Did you catch the nod to the** ** _Princess Bride_** **?**


	59. Percy and the Possessed Snake

**_July 6, 1998_**

Like a wounded animal, Percy had instinctively sought a safe place to hide after fleeing the carnage outside Shell Cottage. His Portkey had taken him to his well-organized little office at the Ministry rather than his soulless flat or St. Mungo's, even though either would have been a more sensible destination.

From the Ministry, he had placed a Floo call to Audrey and waited, cowering behind his desk until she arrived. He wished that Fred - even if just a figment of his imagination - had stayed with him, but Percy was quite alone except for the bodies of Blaise Zabini and Marcus Flint propped in a corner until Audrey arrived.

Like an efficient whirlwind, she administered pain potions and Pepper-Up to Percy, delivered Flint's corpse to St. Mungo's to be retrieved by his family, and finally utilized a pair of bootleg international Portkeys for travel to and from Italy to fetch her aunt, the infamous Magda Zabini.

Now, Percy slumped in exhaustion against the cushions of the white leather sofa that dominated the living area of the Zabinis' London flat. He ached down to his bones, an aftereffect of the multiple Crucios inflicted upon him by Rabastan Lestrange.

If there had been one good thing about his day, it had been watching a Dementor feast on what passed as the blackened excuse for Rabastan's soul. Percy only regretted that the Dementors were indiscriminate weapons and that Audrey's cousin had been a victim as well. His interactions with Blaise had been minimal, but knew from Audrey that the Zabinis were neutral. He had personally witnessed Blaise taking the Dark Mark under duress, as well as crying out for his mum just before a Dementor gave him one last kiss. He hadn't deserved to be a casualty of Voldemort's war, but that was true of so many others.

"How is your aunt holding up?" he inquired as Audrey returned and settled next to him, keeping his voice low so that it would not carry to the bedroom where the notorious, oft-married witch was holding a vigil over her only child.

Like her niece, Madam Zabini had arrived in a flurry of motion, but where Audrey was efficient, Magda was dramatic. However, her reaction to seeing her son without a soul had been entirely unfeigned. Percy was sure that the sound of her keening wail at Blaise's blank eyes would haunt his nightmares, along with the way she had shaken and even slapped her son, trying to elicit any reaction from his rag-doll body. But ever since she had locked herself in the bedroom, after tucking Blaise into his bed like a sick child, an eerie silence had fallen over the flat.

Audrey snuggled against his side with a sigh. "As well as can be expected. It's horrid, though. Poor Blaise."

"I can't hear her crying or screaming anymore. Did you cast a silencing charm on the room?" Percy asked softly, torn between relief and an inexplicable uneasiness. It felt like the calm before a storm, or perhaps the eye of a hurricane.

"No, I didn't," Audrey answered in a whisper, equally uneasy. "That's a bad sign. Aunt Magda's at her most dangerous when she's quiet."

Given that the woman was widely suspected of having murdered at least a plurality of her eight dead husbands, Percy thought that Magda Zabini might be quite dangerous indeed.

The witch they were discussing emerged from the bedroom, a determined expression on her haggard face. "I am done with my mourning. Now I want revenge," she announced, dark eyes glittering with rage instead of tears.

Despite her undeniable dark beauty, Percy recoiled - both at the venom in her voice and the adder curled around her arm. He _hated_ snakes. It had nothing to do with silly Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalries. Indeed, he had gone out of his way to be fair as Head Boy. It was an atavistic reaction, one that he had even to the harmless grass snakes that slithered around the Burrow's back garden, living in peaceful coexistence with the gnome colony.

This snake seemed to return his feelings, with interest. It looked at him with unblinking emerald eyes, its reptilian stare somehow baleful. Percy gulped.

"I didn't know Blaise had a familiar," Audrey said, regarding the poisonous little snake with curiosity.

"Nor did I. Nor did he," Madam Zabini said.

As he puzzled at her cryptic words, she gracefully sat on the couch, insinuating herself between them. Percy made sure to lean well away from the snake.

Magda watched him with amusement. "This is a very special little fellow, and I expect someone will be along to fetch him shortly. In the meantime, I am certain he will not bite you," she attempted to reassure him. "Isn't that so, _mio prescelto_?"

The snake hissed in response. Not being a Parselmouth, Percy had no idea if the little brighter was agreeing or contradicting her. Regardless, he shifted even further away, well out of striking range of its fangs. With his wand at the ready to cast a shield charm should it attack, he sat in stiff silence. Audrey's aunt continued to hold the snake in her lap, occasionally caressing it, her blood-colored nails providing a shocking contrast against the mottled snakeskin.

Some short time, Percy snapped up his head and his wand at the sharp crack of an Apparation directly into the lounge. He hoped that Madam Zabini was correct and someone was coming to take the snake away, and that the flat was not being invaded by Aurors or some of his fellow Death Eaters. Then perhaps he could call it a night and stumble off to his own lonely bed. He would never be so forward as to suggest that Audrey join him, though he thought that would be rather nice.

It _was_ a Death Eater, but only one. Percy relaxed minutely, not because he trusted Draco Malfoy, but because Hermione was with him, blinking owlishly in the room's bright light and wearing an oversized Gryffindor t-shirt that might have been borrowed from one of Percy's brothers.

"Madam Zabini," Malfoy said, looking unruffled in pressed trousers and a black shirt despite the lateness of the hour and the desperate battle at Shell Cottage mere hours before. He inclined his blond head politely to the witch, ignoring Percy and Audrey.

"Draco, I've been expecting you," Magda purred, giving him a sultry smile that brought an embarrassed color to Malfoy's pale face.

"Well, perhaps not _you_ ," she amended, raising one eyebrow in a delicate arch. "Blaise told me you had given up on your childish fixation with the Potter boy. But I knew someone would come to rescue Dumbledore's Chosen One."

"That's Harry?!" Percy blurted out, utterly repulsed. "Harry's a _snake_?"

Malfoy recovered his composure enough to sneer at him. "Do you have a problem with snakes, Weasley?"

Hermione gave both of them a reproachful look. "Stop it, Draco," she scolded, giving him a nudge before admonishing Percy. "There's no need for you to sound so horrified. It's not as though Harry had any choice."

She turned her attention to Madam Zabini. "How did you know? Did Blaise tell you?" she demanded, somewhat rudely.

"My son was always circumspect in his communications," the older witch spoke haughtily, eying Hermione with evident disfavor. "Particularly so since the battle at Hogwarts. However, Blaise was never one to bond with a familiar, let alone a common pet."

"Though this little adder is anything but common," she crooned at the snake. "Isn't that right, _bello tesoro_?"

Percy thought her endearments were ill-advised as the snake hissed in response. It sounded threatening to his ears, but Magda merely laughed and petted it - or him, if it really was Harry.

She glanced back at Hermione, a sly look in her dark eyes. "It was clear from his behavior that this was no ordinary snake, but one that was possessed. Between the emerald eyes, the oddity that the Chosen One's body was never found, and some very subtle hints in Blaise's letters to me, I did not need to be the brightest witch of a certain age to figure out that this snake is Harry Potter."

"Hissy," Malfoy corrected. "We call him Hissy when he's in snake form."

"That's what _you_ call him," Hermione rolled her eyes. "Everyone else calls him James. And Harry won't be in snake form much longer."

"You know the spell to return your friend to a human body?" Madam Zabini asked, looking mildly impressed. "I would not have expected that from one like you."

"Because I'm a Mudblood?" Hermione asked challengingly, ignoring Malfoy's restraining hand on her wrist.

Percy shifted in his seat, made uncomfortable by the dislike crackling between the two witches. He was glad that Audrey was staying well out of it.

"No, because the spell to transfer a soul is so Dark," Magda explained, as though speaking to a small and dim-witted child. "It is not something you would have learnt at Hogwarts. Besides, your blood status has been reclassified. You are quite welcome," she added acidly.

"We are both very grateful to you for that intercession," Malfoy said smoothly. This time, he was the one to nudge Hermione.

"Yes, thank you," she agreed, grudgingly polite.

"It is nothing, Draco," Madam Zabini waved a negligent hand, ignoring the curly-haired witch. "But if you wish to use my Blaise for your spell, that is more than something."

She glared at the couple, cutting off Malfoy's protest by raising a single manicured fingertip. "Come with me, Miss Granger," she ordered, rising to her feet with Harry the snake wrapped around her arm, crooking the same finger towards Blaise's bedroom. "A body may not have the same worth as a soul, but it still has value. It is not something you may take with permission or compensation. Audrey, I shall need you as well."

Audrey stood, according her aunt immediate obedience. Hermione first looked to Malfoy - Percy could not tell if she was seeking permission or assurance - before standing and making to follow the older witch from the room.

To Percy's eyes, Malfoy looked utterly indifferent, but Madam Zabini saw something different. "Don't fret about your _ammaliatrice_ , Draco. I shan't hurt her. This is nothing but a negotiation, and she is merely Mister Potter's proxy. I do not speak Parseltongue, after all." Her smile was less than reassuring as she swept from the room, the two younger witches trailing in her wake.

Percy sat in awkward silence on the sofa as Malfoy leaned against the wall. His face was an insouciant mask, but the staccato tapping of his wand against the wall betrayed his concern.

"Stop that," Percy snapped, his own nerves frayed after a rather trying evening. "What has you so twitchy, Malfoy?"

The blond wizard eyed him in a calculating manner before answering. "Well, I thought you were going to attempt to summon the Dark Lord to turn over Hissy, and then I would have to kill you. But since you've kept your forearm covered, I'm refraining for the moment," he drawled.

"I wouldn't betray Harry like that!" Percy exclaimed, outraged.

Malfoy shrugged, insultingly. "I should think _you_ would find it easy enough. You would rise quite high in the Dark Lord's favor if you turned over Potter. And what's one spectacled git compared to your own parents?"

"You don't know everything about the circumstances of their demise," Percy said coldly, removing his glasses and polishing them with a handkerchief. Despite his red hair, he was not hot-headed, but he wanted to scream the truth in Malfoy's sneering face.

"Perhaps I don't," Malfoy conceded. "And Granger reliably informs me that someone well-placed within the Ministry has been greasing the wheels for certain travel permits. Your fiancée's work, I presume?"

"Audrey? She's not - " Percy compressed his lips, not certain whether he had been about to deny the nature of their relationship or Audrey's involvement in the resistance. In either case, it was nothing Malfoy needed to know. With a chill, he wondered just how much the blond Death Eater had discovered through Hermione and whether he could be trusted even a whit.

Malfoy gave him a knowing smirk. "I didn't see a ring on her finger, but if you're not engaged yet, you will be soon. We purebloods marry young, and Selwyn doesn't believe in casual dating, at least not for his darling daughter."

"I can manage my own affairs, while you handle yours," Percy said primly, oblivious the double meaning that could be attached to his words. He was surprised at Malfoy's sudden laugh.

"Alright, Weasley. We'll each do that."

"You seemed uneasy about Hermione leaving with Audrey's aunt," Percy ventured, changing the subject. In this odd conversation, he would much prefer to be receiving confidences than sharing his own secrets. "Is it because of the rumors that she killed her husbands?"

"Don't be stupid. Hermione's not a wealthy warlock." Malfoy rolled his eyes. "And here I thought you were the intelligent one in the Weasel litter. Well, it's all relative, I suppose," he added snidely.

Percy ignored the insults, intrigued by Malfoy's tacit admission that he cared enough about Hermione to be concerned. "So what are you worried about, then?" he probed.

Malfoy stared broodingly at the opposite wall for close to a minute before answering. Percy waited him out in patient silence, a tactic that had been reliably successful in wringing information from his more volatile younger siblings.

"You heard what Blaise's mum said. She's going to want something valuable in exchange for his body, and she'll want insurance that she gets whatever is promised. Since Potter's a snake, he can't make an Unbreakable Vow, so Hermione will have to make it for him. And then she'll be the one to die if Hissy doesn't live up to his end of the bargain," the blond concluded.

"You really think they're making an Unbreakable Vow in there?" Percy asked. Such oaths were exceedingly rare, since most witches and wizards shied away from such extreme consequences. "Hermione seems far too intelligent for that."

"Granger's self-preservation instincts are on par with a lemming taking a cliffside stroll when it comes to Potter. She's already been Petrified by a basilisk, attacked by werewolves, cursed by Dolohov and tortured by my mad aunt trying to keep that idiotic bastard from running headlong into a well-deserved death, so Salazar only know what she'll promise Magda Zabini to get the Chosen One back into a human body again."

Percy raised an eyebrow at the bitterness and envy in the blond wizard's voice, wondering again where his loyalties lay - clearly not with Harry Potter.

"We weren't even here for Blaise. We were just going to fetch Hissy and be on our way to St. Mungo's," Malfoy finished his complaint, muttering to himself.

"Can't you just order Hermione to be more careful?" Percy wondered.

Malfoy snorted. "That shows how little you know about women, Weasley."

Before Percy could respond, Magda Zabini returned to the room with a satisfied smile on her face, her scarlet lips making Percy think of a vampire's mouth. Behind her, Audrey was drooping from whatever had transpired, while Hermione was pale and clearly upset.

"What happened?" Malfoy demanded, yanking her towards him. "What did you promise?"

"Harry's firstborn son," Hermione whispered.

"Fuck!" he swore. "What were you thinking? Potter will never-"

"Harry agreed," Hermione protested. "He nodded."

"And what happens when the Weaselette or whoever he's spawned with objects?" he snapped.

"It isn't so bad as that," Audrey interposed, trying to calm the furious blond. "My aunt wants to be an involved grandmother and adopt the child as her heir when he's of age. She wouldn't try to take a baby from his parents."

Malfoy rounded on her. "Oh, wouldn't she?"

Percy stepped between them. "Is it done?" He inquired of Audrey with much more restraint.

She shook her head, giving him a sympathetic look as Madam Zabini seized him by the wrist.

"We are not done yet," she answered for her niece. "I need your assistance, Percy."

"Why me?" he asked helplessly, as she walked him towards the bedroom.

"Because binding a soul to another's body is a very difficult process, and not a painless one. Audrey is too drained from the binding to assist me. Miss Granger is a powerful witch, but could not stand to hurt her friend, while Draco would enjoy hurting Harry Potter entirely too much. That leaves you!" Magda answered, brightly and disconcertingly. It was a testament to her allure that Percy made no further protest, but followed her meekly, willing and eager to assist.

Inside the bedroom, all of the Muggle lamps and lights had been switched on, casting a bright light compared to the candles and gaslight Percy was accustomed to. The stark illumination showed Blaise's inert form on the bed, his robes opened to the waist and his wrists and ankles strapped to the bed frame. Harry lay curled up on his exposed chest, immobilized and hissing in agitation at his inability to move.

Percy was aghast, but even his brief time as a Death Eater - combined with his longer tenure as a Ministry employee - had trained him not to ask awkward questions. Still, Madam Zabini must have read the condemnation in his eyes.

"It is not Blaise. Whatever made him Blaise is gone. It is only a husk," she answered his unvoiced question about how she could stand to hurt her only child. "Now, no matter what happens, you must keep the snake in place," she warned.

What followed was worse than any raid or revel in which Percy had unwillingly participated. For minutes that seemed to stretch into hours, he kept his wand trained on the snake, trying to ignore the way that Blaise's body arched off the bed in agony as wordless, guttural sounds issued from his mouth.

The process was no easier for Harry as a snake than it was for his prospective human host. Percy used his wand to hold the adder immobile on Blaise's chest, as instructed, but he could feel Harry's magic straining desperately to break free so that he could thrash his serpentine body in pain. Venom dripped from his fangs as he hissed incessantly.

Sweat drippped down Percy's forehead, stinging his eyes, and his wand hand began to shake from exhaustion and the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse. He was dimly aware of Magda's spell casting rising in volume and pitch, drowning out the tortured moans and hisses. Her voice reached a crescendo just as black spots began to dot his vision. The Muggle lights flickered, one lightbulb shattering with a noise that made Percy startle, and then the room fell silent, so quiet that the only sound he heard was his own labored breathing.

"Did it work?" he croaked weakly. Blaise's body was limp on the bed and the snake had disappeared.

"It worked," Madam Zabini confirmed. "Look," she commanded. Percy's eyes followed her pointing finger, coming to rest on the circular mark on Blaise's sternum. At first glance, it appeared to be a scar or a birthmark, a mottled tan paler than his dark skin. On closer inspection, Percy realized it was a tattoo of an adder, curled up in a ball. He shuddered as the miniaturized snake moved, unfurling itself to slither the length of Blaise's breastbone. The snake opened its jaw and hissed, as though aware of Percy's regard.

"He wants to fight," Madam Zabini observed with satisfaction. " _Rennervate_!"

Blaise's eyes snapped open and he immediately began to struggle against his bonds. His indigo eyes passed over Madam Zabini without recognition and landed on Percy.

"Percy! What's going on? You've got to help me!" he cried. The timbre of the voice was Blaise Zabini's, but the tone and inflection were pure Harry Potter.

"It's alright, Harry," Percy soothed. With a nod from Magda, he used his wand to loosen the bonds, allowing Harry to sit up.

"What happened? Where are Hermione and Ron?" Harry asked, rapid-fire. His hands rose to his face out of habit, seeking to adjust glasses that he no longer wore. At the sight of his well-manicured nails, dark skin, a family signet ring on his finger and the Dark Mark on his forearm, Harry's eyes widened in a manner that Percy would have found comical if the situation had not been so serious.

"Percy, what's going on?" Harry demanded, his now-deeper voice cracking with strain. "And who is she?"

Percy saw the flicker of pain that crossed her face at the question. "I am Magda Zabini, Blaise's mother. You have been staying with him since the school term ended. And now you've taken possession of his body."

"No way!" Harry protested, looking appalled at the idea.

"Mister Potter, how much do you remember of the last two months?" Madam Zabini inquired.

"Not much," Harry admitted. "It's pretty much a blur after the battle at Hogwarts."

A grim smile crossed her face. "Then we have much to discuss."

 **A/N: Sorry it's been so long! I normally write during the wee hours of the morning when I can't sleep, but my insomnia has been much, much better these past few months. That's good for me, but bad for frequent updates.**

 **Thanks to all for the many kind and encouraging reviews since the last chapter, especially cnf, who is normally a silent reader (like me) but left a few lovely reviews with very good questions, and Ein011, who lost sleep reading all 58 chapters in one sitting.**

 **Also, one of my completed stories, _Better Off Forgotten_ , was nominated in the 2017 "After All This Time?" Spring Dramione Awards and ultimately awarded second place for a memory charm fic. If whoever nominated it, or anyone who voted for it, happens to be reading this story, thank you so much! I really, truly appreciate the recognition. **


	60. Theo's Disguise

**_July 6, 1998, continued_**

A rain squall was moving inland along the Cornish coast, and Theo was shivering and soaked to the skin in the middle of it.

"Could someone please cast an Impervius?" he asked plaintively.

Once again, he was wandless. The Order had allowed him to carry Rabastan Lestrange's wand when he reported to Malfoy Manor, recognizing he needed it to complete his Polyjuiced disguise, but it had been taken from him as soon as he returned to Shell Cottage. Theo thought might have earned a little bit of trust through his dutiful return, but his Weasley gaolers seemingly disagreed.

George and Ron sneered at his request. Bill ignored him, too caught up in dismantling the boundary wards surrounding the Lestrange property to pay attention to Theo or the weather. Luna, however, graced him with a vague smile, even as she refused to meet his eyes.

"Of course, Theo." She then cast two charms in quick succession, one warming and drying him and the second repelling the raindrops from him and Bill.

"Just closely are the Notts related to the Lestranges?" Bill demanded. The eldest Weasley son's mouth was twisted into a snarl as he worked on the complex wards, the pendency of the full moon in two nights impacting his ability to concentrate and making him quick to anger.

"Not very," Theo replied after a moment, mentally reviewing his family tree as Bill growled with impatience. "There was a marriage four generations ago."

"Closer than us Weasleys, but not that close." The redhead shook his head and grimaced, the harsh expression deepening the scars Greyback had left on his face. "It's not going to be easy, getting you in tonight."

"But Theo _needs_ to get in tonight," Luna stressed, unusually worried for such a serene personality.

"Rabastan will be getting a Floo call," Theo warned. "I do need to be there." It was standard procedure that senior Death Eaters, at Voldemort's instigation, regularly checked on the rank and file or those under the Dark Lord's scrutiny. Rabastan would have earned that scrutiny for the debacle at Shell Cottage.

"What about us?" Ron chimed in. "You're not going to trust Nott alone with Ginny, are you?"

"Ron, our family last intermarried with the Lestranges when a Plantagenet was king of England. It will take me days, if not weeks, to modify the blood wards to recognize one of us," Bill explained impatiently. "It'll be a stretch just to get Theo in, but I'll manage it - if you lot can shut up and let me concentrate."

"Thank you," Theo said, not bothering to dignify Ron's insinuation that he might hurt Ginny with a response.

After several minutes of silence, Bill rocked back on his heels with a satisfied expression on his face. "That'll do to get you in, Nott. And back out again. One of us will meet you here at seven o'clock - don't be late," he warned, turning away from his now-finished work to bypass the wards to give Theo a hard look.

"Did anyone at Malfoy Manor ask you how Rabastan escaped from the Dementors?" Luna asked in her airy voice, looking off in the distance at the looming Lestrange residence.

Theo shrugged. "They asked, but they weren't really concerned. The general opinion is that Rabastan is an idiot who deserved to be Kissed for not lifting the Anti-Apparition wards sooner. Since they didn't have a Dementor handy, he - meaning I - got _Crucio'd_ instead." It had hurt - obviously - to be tortured, but there had been an added layer of emotional pain when Draco, one of his closest friends, cast the curse. The blond wizard had meant it, too, looking at the wizard who he thought was Rabastan with utter loathing and torturing him without mercy.

"Oh, how awful!" George sing-songed with blatant sarcasm. "Poor little Nott, having to be on the wrong side of an Unforgivable for once."

"Shut it, George," Bill ordered. "You'll want to drink up now," he advised Theo, not unkindly as he proffered Rabastan's wand. "It's easier if you don't transform back."

Theo took the wand and the advice with a nod of thanks. With a gulp, he swallowed another slug of the ochre-colored Polyjuice. While it had been nauseatingly painful to transform into Rabastan Lestrange, whose body was shorter but broader than Theo's lanky form, Bill was correct that it did not hurt to maintain his current guise as Rabastan. It was still uncomfortable to be in someone else's body - he kept scratching at Rabastan's beard - but the discomfort was more mental than physical.

It also gave him a pang that Luna would not look directly at him. He knew she had been imprisoned in the cellar at Malfoy Manor for several months earlier in the year. Theo now suspected that Rabastan had hurt or at least threatened her, and wished that the vile man still was alive so he could visit even more retribution upon him. However, after the Weasleys had harvested a sufficient number of hairs to manufacture months' worth of Polyjuice Potion containing essence of Lestrange, Luna and Fleur had Levitated Rabastan's soulless but still breathing body off the cliffs behind Shell Cottage and dumped him into the churning sea.

"You should go now," Luna suggested, looking over Theo's shoulder.

"I'll do that," he sighed, not even attempting to hug her in farewell. She might accept a hug from him when Theo was wearing his own face and body, but not now, not when he looked like Rabastan. The man had been odious in life and would be unmourned in death.

Theo walked across the wide expanse of lawn, feeling the eyes of the Weasley brothers boring into his back through the wards they could not cross. The wards tickled at him but provided no impediment - Bill knew his curse-breaking.

The heavy oaken door yielded to Theo's touch. Like most pureblood families, the Lestranges put their most formidable protections at the perimeter of their property, not even requiring an "Alohomora" from those keyed into the wards to open the front door.

As soon as he stepped foot into the foyer, gaslights in ornate metal sconces flared to light, illuminating walls paneled in dark wood and a glimmering marble floor. Theo's eyes glossed over the opulent entryway, all standard fare for the ancestral manor homes of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, and focused on the small figure bowing with its scarred snout to the ground. This would be the real test.

"Is Master requiring anything before he retires for the evening?" asked the Lestrange elf, obsequiously.

"Firewhisky in the study," Theo barked out in Rabastan's deeper voice. "And make it snappy, unless you wish to iron your ears tonight." It went against the grain to threaten a house-elf. His father had drilled into him that a proper pureblood wizard should be able to _quietly_ demand respect from all, and that blustering and bullying were hallmarks of a weak man. However, he had to stay in character as Rabastan, and that would require any amount of repugnant behavior.

"Yes, Master," the elf squeaked. "Mully is bringing the Firewhisky right away, Master."

Theo made a mental note of the creature's name as it popped away to fetch his alcohol, even though he doubted that Rabastan had ever bothered to use it.

The study was not difficult to find. Most of the manor homes belonging to the old pureblood families had similar layouts. Still, it took him long enough to traverse the gloomy passageways that his Firewhisky was decanted on a sideboard when he arrived in the study, with a cheerful fire glowing in the grate. He drew in a deep breath, feeling the sinister aura from various books and objects in the room tingling against his skin. After more than two months at Shell Cottage, he was especially sensitive to the darker magics.

For form's sake, Theo poured himself half a glass of whisky and set it close at hand before he began rummaging through the desk, looking for information on Horcruxes. When Luna had first told him about the vile things that kept the Dark Lord alive, all of Theo's instincts had told him that Potter and his friends must have missed one. Fred's spirit had confirmed that at least one Horcrux was left, though he had been frustratingly vague as to whether Potter was the missing piece or if there was another Horcrux out there.

Ron Weasley grudgingly had supplied the Order with the list of presumed Horcruxes that had been found and destroyed: the Dark Lord's diary and pet snake; Slytherin's locket and ring; Helga Hufflepuff's badger-embossed cup; a diadem that had belonged to Rowena Ravenclaw, and possibly Harry Potter. Theo found it mildly suspicious that there was nothing belonging to Godric Gryffindor on the list, but even more suspicious that Weasley - who loved to brag - was so close-mouthed about his destruction of the Horcrux locket.

One of Theo's tasks in impersonating Rabastan was to search the Lestrange manor for information on any surviving Horcrux, or perhaps even an actual Horcrux. If the Lestranges had been entrusted once with a Hocrux, Voldemort might have trusted them again.

Theo made it through the desk without success, finding nothing beyond some correspondence with Gringotts seeking compensation for the theft of Hufflepuff's cup, and had just started on the dusty shelves of books when he was interrupted by the chiming of the Floo. He flopped down into the leather desk chair and grabbed his glass of Firewhisky, raising it to his lips as his father's head appeared in the fireplace.

"Lestrange," Charlus spoke with distaste, the now-greenish flames giving his features a sickly cast at odds with his sharp, dark eyes. "Drinking again, I see."

"D'ya mean drunk again, Charlus?" Theo purposefully slurred his words, tripping over his father's first name. He expected he would make any number of small mistakes impersonating Rabastan, but he hoped his apparent drunkenness would serve to excuse such sloppiness.

"I said what I meant. I did not call to comment on your sobriety, or lack thereof," Charlus said, his voice clipped with irritation.

"Then why're you calling me?" Theo rudely demanded in his role as Rabastan. "It's not like we're friends."

"I should think not," Charlus sniffed, much to Theo's relief. He would lose a considerable measure of the respect he had for his father if he discovered the man considered a brute like Lestrange anything other than an obnoxious acquaintance.

"However, we are colleagues," Charlus continued. "And it seems that my wife has taken your wife under her wing. Narcissa would like to invite Ginevra to lunch tomorrow. I suppose you'll wish to accompany her," he added, extending a reluctant invitation as a pretext for his Floo call.

"How kind of you to invite us," Theo sneered, thinking quickly if there was any risk of exposure in visiting his family home. Nothing came to mind - as Mully demonstrated, house-elves had no particular ability to detect Polyjuiced imposters, and the Nott family had no magical relics to identify lost heirs. They might, however, have added a Horcrux to their collection. Theo knew his father stood high in Voldemort's esteem, higher than Lestrange. "My wife and I should be delighted to attend."

"Very well then," Charlus said sourly, closing the conversation. "We shall open the Floo at noon." With that, he ended the call, allowing the room to once more be bathed in warm firelight. Theo welcomed it - despite the calendar's claim that it was high summer, the weather throughout England was bleak and unseasonably cold. Here, near the coast, the cool temperature was made worse by a clammy dampness that permeated the old house.

When he caught himself fighting successive yawns, Theo decided to go upstairs to sleep and leave the remainder of the bookshelves for another day. He had to be up bright and early to rendezvous with a Weasley. He hoped it was Bill, so he could build on their fragile trust and readily gain permission for the visit to Nott Court. Bill was by far the most reasonable Weasley, as well as the most senior in the Order of the Phoenix.

At the top of the stairs, staring down a hallway of closed doors, Theo realized he had no idea which of the bedrooms belonged to Rabastan. Had he taken over the master suite when his older brother died? Did he share with Ginny? Theo decided that trial and error would serve him best and reached for a doorknob. Hopefully it would be obvious which bedroom he was supposed to occupy, and hopefully it would not be shared with the Weaselette. That would make for an awkward night.

Just as that thought crossed his mind, Ginny poked her head out from one of the doors near the end of the corridor. She scowled at the sight of him.

"Good evening, Ginny," Theo said, erring on the side of formality as he walked towards her.

She gave him a wary look. "What in Godric's name is wrong with you?" she asked.

"What, can't I be pleasant to my own wife?" Theo rejoined, trying to get a feel for their relationship.

She snorted. "Not usually, no. And you never call me Ginny."

"Er, sorry," Theo apologized as he reached her. The redhead cringed away from him. Knowing how brave Ginny Weasley had been in defying the Carrows at Hogwarts, her involuntary reaction made Theo feel sick. "I really am sorry," he reiterated, apologizing as a man for what Lestrange must have done to her.

"Whatever," she muttered, looking sullen.

"We're invited to Nott Court for lunch tomorrow," he offered. "Narcissa wants to see you." As he spoke, Theo again felt the tingle of dark magic against his skin, more strongly than he had felt it in the study.

"Okay," Ginny muttered, but with a bit more enthusiasm. "What time?"

"Noon," Theo answered absently, looking past her at the apple green bedroom. It was pleasantly appointed, but did not strike him as a master suite. Perhaps it had always been Rabastan's room, and he had made Ginny move in with him. He made to pass her, curious to see what dark object was inside.

"Get out!" Ginny screeched, blocking his path. "This is _my_ room! You never sleep in here. You know what Madam Fawley said. You're not to touch me, or you might hurt the baby."

Theo realized how her arms were clutched protectively around her still-flat abdomen. "You're pregnant," he blurted out.

"Merlin, how drunk are you?" Ginny looked at him with disgust. "No, don't bother to answer. Just go to bed." She pointed down the hallway at a door and Theo stumbled off in that direction, his thoughts racing.

Not only was Ginny pregnant, but she also was keeping something very, very evil in her bedroom.

 **A/N: As usual, thanks for your patience and lovely reviews in the interim between chapters! I do have a good reason this time, which is that I wrote a new story for the Dramione remix, called** ** _Tout le Mensonge_** **. Eventually I plan to post an expanded and refined version on this site, but for now it is on AO3. I haven't yet had the chance to read all of the remixed stories posted for this round, but I especially loved** ** _The Agency_** **by damnedscribblingwoman and** ** _The Brewer and the Beast_** **by Misdemeanor1331.**

 **Special thanks to Sukki18 for her review of chapter 59, in part because I totally know what you mean about the next button! Phinoa's** ** _Faceless_** **is the story that most recently got that reaction out of me - I highly recommend it. Also, thanks to the Guest who thought the Indians' awesome winning streak might have distracted me from writing. I'm more of a casual fan, but I really hope I'm watching the Tribe in the playoffs all month and can blame any update delays on them...**

 **Also, if whoever nominated me for Dramione Advent is reading this note, I truly appreciate it. Thank you so much! I'm working on a holiday-themed story that will be reasonably fluffy in keeping with the season - promise!**


	61. Ginny Gets Some Answers

**_July 7, 1998_**

As on Ginny's previous visit, lunch at Nott Court was served in the dining room. There was a new addition to the decor: a painting of Narcissa, looking regal in a blue gown and elaborate diamond and sapphire jewelry, hung over the fireplace mantel in an ornate gilt frame.

"It's a lovely portrait," Ginny complimented her hostess.

"Thank you. It was quite fatiguing to sit for, but I do believe it turned out nicely," Narcissa responded gracefully. She was just as thin as when Ginny had seen her last, making her gaunt rather than slender, but there was some color in her cheeks and her face was no longer pinched with pain.

"It's an excellent likeness," Rabastan agreed, without even a hint of a leer.

Ginny shot him a sharp glance, adding another tick mark to her running tally of his odd behavior since the night before. In truth, it was less that Rabastan was acting odd, and more that he was acting like a normal person rather than a wizard driven more than half-mad by use of Dark magic and his time in Azkaban.

After trying to come into her bedroom last night, he had accepted her rebuff with startling meekness. Instead of sleeping off his hangover until the last possible minute, he had been awake early and had drunk tea rather than Firewhisky for breakfast - though he was still taking periodic gulps from his hip flask. Rabastan had neither groped nor insulted her, and had even courteously handed her the bowl of Floo powder so that she could precede him on the trip to Nott Manor. And while his conversation over lunch with Charlus Nott in particular seemed strained, it had been polite.

"To your continued good health, Rabastan." Nott interrupted Ginny's thoughts, raising his glass in a toast that may or may not have been ironic. "You enjoyed a very fortunate escape from a Dementor's Kiss."

"Fortune sometimes favors fools," Madam Zabini chimed in. "Your tactics at Shell Cottage were execrable." The dark witch glared at Rabastan before knocking back most of the wine in her glass.

Her husband and Rabastan each took identical, measured sips of their wine. Ginny's eyes narrowed at Rabastan's unusual restraint, both in his alcohol consumption and in not lashing out at Madam Zabini.

"Your Blaise is far from a fool. He, too, was fortunate to survive." Narcissa said in a placating way before taking a generous sip from her own glass.

Rather than sipping at her tea to join the toast, Ginny set her cup down in its saucer with a defiant clink. From across the table, Blaise Zabini saluted her with his own glass of wine. Ginny ignored the arrogant Slytherin, who had been staring at her since she arrived.

His mother glared at their byplay as she set her own wine glass back onto the polished tabletop. One of the Nott house-elves discreetly refilled it. "Survive?" Magda echoed, sounding strangely angry. "I suppose Blaise survived."

Ginny was surprised at the anger. For all the rumors about how casually Madam Zabini disposed of her husbands, she was known to dote upon her only child.

"Are you not drinking?" The dark witch asked Ginny curiously. She certainly was, taking another gulp from her glass.

"No, I'm expecting," Ginny gritted out, surprised that Rabastan wasn't crowing like a cock about his heir. She was fed up with the inevitable simpering good wishes on her pregnancy, let alone the unsolicited advice and horror stories of childbirth inevitably offered by older witches.

Magda offered none of those, but merely gave Ginny an appraising look over the rim of her wine glass. "Indeed," she said in icy acknowledgment.

Blaise choked on his own wine. "What?" he sputtered, with an inelegance that was at odds with his typically smooth behavior.

"Madam Lestrange is expecting," his mother reiterated, a warning note in her voice.

"I'm pregnant, not mute," Ginny snapped, annoyed enough not to care if Rabastan exacted consequences later for her outspokenness. And Blaise still was staring at her, now looking like a kicked puppy rather than the arrogant berk she had known at school.

"Er, when is the baby due?" he asked after an awkward pause.

"March," Ginny lied. February was more accurate, if the baby had been conceived with Harry right before the battle at Hogwarts, but she was fudging the due date so Rabastan would never entertain the possibility that the baby was not a Lestrange.

"Oh." Just a single word, but Blaise seemed devastated. "I need to go," he muttered, shoving his chair back from the table. Moments later, they heard the whoosh of the Floo from the foyer, signaling his departure.

"Blaise has not been himself these past couple days," his mother apologized. "I blame the Dementors," she said, giving Rabastan another murderous glare. "If you will be so kind as to excuse me, I shall see to him."

"Of course," their host agreed with cordiality. "I do hope Blaise is feeling like himself again soon."

Ginny by no means liked Charlus Nott, but the venomous look that Madam Zabini gave him in response to that pleasantry as she swept from the room seemed unwarranted.

"What about you, Rabastan?" Charlus asked with a much less sincere geniality. "Did your exposure to the Dementors make you feel not quite yourself?"

Rabastan blanched at the innocuous statement. "I suppose it did," he managed, after a long pause.

"How did you manage not to be Kissed?" Charlus wondered out loud, steepling his fingers. "I understand from Magda that her son used Occlumency to dull his emotions and deflect the Dementors' interest, but you never learned to Occlude. It seems improbable - I daresay even miraculous."

Rabastan deliberately chewed and swallowed a morsel of lunch before answering. "I don't understand it, myself. Perhaps the Dementors took enough of my emotional energy at Azkaban that I was no longer of interest to them."

"Perhaps. Although Brutus Flint was Kissed, and he had previously been an inmate at Azkaban."

"Then perhaps it was because I was near Percy Weasley when he conjured a Patronus. It drove away all the Dementors from his vicinity."

"Weasley was near you on the battlefield when he conjured a Patronus? I shall have to speak with him about that," Charlus said.

Ginny hid a smirk. She would pay quite a few Galleons witness that terribly civilized interrogation. Percy still was in her bad books.

"Are you certain you are quite recovered, Rabastan?" Narcissa asked.

"No, perhaps not," he agreed, snapping out of his distraction.

"As much as we enjoy your company, Charlus and I would not be offended if you cut our luncheon short," she offered.

"I appreciate that, Narcissa," Rabastan said. "But I don't wish to deprive Ginny of your company."

Once again, he had called her Ginny rather than Ginevra. Ginny knew that Dementors made people relive their most harrowing memories, and drove the prisoners of Azkaban mad through prolonged exposure. However, Dementors would not cause Rabastan to switch from using her loathed given name, which the Lestranges considered suitable for their pureblood wife, to her preferred nickname. It was a puzzle, indeed.

"Oh, Ginevra can stay and visit with me. I'll send her home by Floo later this afternoon," Narcissa promised.

Ginny was certain Rabastan would refuse. While slightly less paranoid than Rodolphus had been, he still had never allowed her to leave the grounds of the Lestrange estate without him. So she was shocked when he agreed and took his leave with reasonable politeness, despite an obvious wariness of Charlus.

After a pleasant afternoon with Narcissa, Ginny Floo'd back to the Lestrange Manor and went straight to her bedroom, wanting to consult with Trixie about the mystery of Rabastan's behavior.

The mirror heard her out with patience, then delivered her verdict. "Do you think he might some other wizard, using Polyjuice?"

"That would explain the flask. And the personality change." Ginny agreed.

"Well, there's one way to find out. Just try to kill him," suggested Trixie. "The blood wards on your wedding band won't protect an imposter."

"That's a bit drastic," Ginny told the bloodthirsty mirror. "And Percy's warned me that if Rabastan dies, I'll just be married off to another Death Eater."

"Maybe some other curse?" Trixie coaxed. "I know a few that aren't fatal."

"I think I'll stick with a hex," Ginny said. "You know, just in case he's one of the good guys."

"Fine." Trixie sounded like she was pouting. "But could you at least bring him in here, please, so I can watch? And make it a good one!"

Ginny agreed, seeing no harm in either request. Given the hell that Rabastan had put her through, she would thoroughly enjoy hitting him - or someone who looked exactly like him - with a painful hex. She also was confident she could avoid any situation where Rabastan - or whoever he was - attempted to _Avada_ the mirror like Rodolphus had.

The fact that Rabastan seemed to find nothing unusual when she sent a house-elf to fetch him was further proof to Ginny that she was dealing with a Polyjuiced imposter.

"Ginny? Did you need something?" he asked, hovering by the entrance to her bedroom. He looked uncomfortable to be there, nervously scratching at his beard.

"Just this," she said, whipping out her oaken wand and hissing the incantation to her favorite hex.

"Ow! Salazar's bollocks!" the wizard swore, careening into her bed frame as black bats began crawling out of his nostrils and flapping around the room. "That is vile!" he gagged.

Ginny followed up her Bat-Bogey hex with an _Incarcerous_ , tying the false Rabastan to the spindles at the foot of her four-poster bed as Trixie cheered her on. "Who are you?" she demanded.

"I'm your husband. Have you gone mental?"

"Perhaps," Ginny admitted. "But you're not Rabastan Lestrange. If you were, I wouldn't have been able to hex you."

The false Rabastan compressed his lips in a thin line, making it clear he would not answer.

"Tighten the ropes," Trixie suggested. "The Polyjuice will wear off soon enough. Or you could try to loosen his tongue. He's in your bedroom, posing as your husband. The Wizengamot would forgive just about anything you do to him, short of an Unforgivable."

"Who's that?" the wizard asked, eyes rolling towards Ginny's en suite bathroom in alarm.

"A friend," she replied, curtly. "And she's right. Who knows what you're planning? Rape, murder, perhaps a bit of rebellion?"

His eyes widened at the last possibility she listed. "Please, I wasn't going to do anything to hurt you. Your brothers wouldn't stand for it."

"Are you with the Order?" Ginny asked sharply. She had no idea where Percy's true loyalties lay, but the imposter had quite deliberately used a plural. That meant Bill, Charlie, George, and Ron, who all were still alive and fighting, so far as she knew.

"I'm the only one they could get past the Lestrange wards on such short notice," he advised.

"He didn't answer your question!" Trixie trilled. "Is he with the Order or not? And who is he?"

The imposter shot her a crooked grin, even as his features began to shift as the Polyjuice Potion wore off.

"I'm Nott," he said, cheekily. "Theo Nott."

 **A/N: Thanks to everyone (anyone?) who is sticking with this story despite the slow pace of my updates. I appreciate the concern expressed by Clever-Lady and others, but there's nothing wrong - just a lack of free time in which to write. Props to the guest and bibliovortex for pointing out my blooper with Neville's middle name, which I've since fixed. I won't subject a beta to my erratic schedule with this story, so I truly appreciate reviews or PMs pointing out any errors. Speaking of beta readers, the fantastic I_was_BOTWP was kind enough to edit my submissions to D/Hr Advent and the Dramione remix, both of which I'm going to cross-post on this site starting tonight. My Advent story (entitled _The Secret of Christmas_ ) was butting right up against the word limit, so this site's version will be slightly expanded, while _Tout le Mensonge_ (a Les Mis remix) is going to be substantially revised. Please check them both out and let me know what you think, if you're so inclined. And since I tend to update TLLH every few months instead of every few days, I'll take this opportunity to wish everyone a Happy New Year in 2018!**


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